


Heard in Silence, Seen in Darkness

by magicalmenagerie



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: ...yearningcore???, Alternate Universe - College/University, Combeferre is demi, Emotional Constipation, Friends to Lovers, Love Confessions, M/M, Miscommunication, Mutual Pining, What do the kids call it these days??, probably, sexy baking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-22
Updated: 2020-08-22
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:14:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25955041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magicalmenagerie/pseuds/magicalmenagerie
Summary: Combeferre and Courfeyrac are never on the same page.
Relationships: Combeferre/Courfeyrac (Les Misérables)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 24





	Heard in Silence, Seen in Darkness

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally 3 chapters, but then I realized I liked it more as a one shot. All 3 completed parts are in this chapter, so if you've already read the first two and want to skip to the third I'm sorry for the inconvenience. I tried to put a larger break in between those sections.
> 
> I-and therefore Combeferre-don't actually know anything about magnets because they are as mysterious and transcendental as the concept of fate itself.

Combeferre was sitting alone in what was arguably the university’s worst dining hall when the world began conspiring against him. 

It was the first Tuesday night of the new semester, and the window panes were foggy from the stuffy heat of the dining room trying to escape into the January wind. The smell of overcooked chicken parmesan and limp stir fry hung heavy in the air, but Combeferre didn’t particularly mind. He chose to eat there because he knew no one else would. This dining hall sat on the outskirts of campus, almost on the opposite end from his dorm, and the only people bold or stupid enough to brave the task of eating the infamous teriyaki chicken were first-semester freshman or students who were so profoundly unlucky in the housing lottery that they had to live in the dingy dormitory across the street. 

Combeferre was there because Enjolras had class until seven and Joly and Bossuet had a club meeting on Tuesday nights which essentially left him without anyone to eat with. And if he was going to eat alone, he wanted to be completely alone. At least alone enough where there was no risk of anyone spilling their chocolate milk on his textbook while they walked by, guffawing with their friends about how the club Lacrosse team was stacked this year (long story).

There were other reasons to eat there, like the middle-aged woman who swiped his student card at the entrance and always smiled at him, the spacious corner booths, and the bizarrely good carrot cake, to name a few. 

He was in the midst of establishing daily routines for himself- a quietly exciting task that presented itself at the beginning of each semester where he was able to place simple pleasures into his otherwise busy life. Finding a new window to study next to or sitting with Bossuet on the floor of the health science building waiting for Joly to get out of lab were moments that would soon become well-worn habits and define his university experience in ways that a frat party could not. 

It was in-between moments, Combeferre knew, that told more complete stories, and he lived his life with that in mind.

Routines also minimized surprises, and although Combeferre was proficient in staying calm during high pressure situations (that was the nature of being in a medical career, after all) the simple truth was that when the world did, in fact, inevitably begin to conspire against you, surprise was its most effective tactic in breaking you down. 

Thankfully, Enjolras was unsurprising and without pretense so when he arrived in the dining hall at 7:15 shrugging snow out of his hair and bypassing the food with a cup of coffee in his hand, Combeferre already had a second piece of carrot cake waiting for him. 

Enjolras wasn’t originally going to join him but upon receiving a rather abrupt text enquiring after his whereabouts only ten minutes earlier, Combeferre rightfully assumed that his best friend would make an appearance sooner or later. 

Combeferre was frowning at his textbook and picking at some lukewarm beef broccoli when his voice materialized above him. “Hey,”

Combeferre glanced up and found Enjolras standing at the edge of the table sporting his red backpack and a determined expression. This, also, was not a surprise.

“Yes?” 

“I’m here to talk about the student activist group we’ve been working on.”

Combeferre vaguely recollected a conversation he had with Enjolras a few months ago in the student union while he was studying for an O-chem final. He had mentioned starting a group on campus but Combeferre was too preoccupied with residual structures to give it a second thought. 

“Of course,” Combeferre nodded knowingly and pushed his books and papers out of the way to make room at the table. Once Enjolras moved to sit in the space across from him, Combeferre noticed a shorter boy who had been standing behind him-a student about their age with curly brown hair, a large smile, and a tray of food. 

Combeferre’s first impression was an inconsequential acknowledgement that he was cute before pity set in at the sight of the tray. He grinned pleasantly at the boy before turning to his best friend. “Enjolras, would you care to introduce me?” 

Enjolras had already pulled out his composition notebook and was scribbling furiously in it, but he perked his head up at the sound of Combeferre’s question. He blinked momentarily, then smiled charmingly.

“Oh. Sorry, this is Courfeyrac, a transfer student from my comparative politics class. Courfeyrac, this is Combeferre.” 

Combeferre turned and offered a hand. “Nice to meet you, Courfeyrac. I’m Enjolras’ roommate.” 

Courfeyrac stared awkwardly at Combeferre before glancing down to his occupied hands. 

Combeferre felt his ears grow hot. “Oh. Sorry.”

The boy chuckled and slid into the space next to Enjolras. Combeferre noticed how his eyes squinted when he laughed, as if all the joy brimming from them threatened to pour out if he opened them any wider. 

“No problem. Enjolras was nice enough to ask me here after class, and with transferring and all I’m always looking for people to eat with. You could probably swat this thing out of my hands and I’d still, like, _beg_ to be friends,” he chatted easily. 

Combeferre was impressed to see someone pronounce friendship so openly and easily, with the confidence of a child or, better yet, someone who _chose_ not to think too much. If Combeferre were in his position, he’d probably convince himself he didn’t need or want a friend until he had one. You can’t mourn the absence of something you never wanted, after all. 

He had admittedly known the extreme anxieties of meeting new friends in his first term freshman year, and he imagined it must be much worse as a transfer student. In his case, Enjolras had thankfully zeroed in on him on day one as friend material.

Combeferre presumed Courfeyrac wouldn’t need that kind of luck. If Enjolras didn’t invite Courfeyrac to eat with them tonight he was sure he’d become friends with the next person he met. 

Combeferre watched as Courfeyrac took a bite of the beef broccoli on his tray and he decided Courfeyrac was perhaps the most emotive person he’d ever met. Disgust consumed his face so intensely that he almost felt bad for not warning him. 

“It’s really terrible, isn’t it?” Combeferre observed. 

Courfeyrac choked as he forced the food down his throat. “Then why didn’t you tell me?” he demanded with a slight undercurrent of amusement in his voice.

Combeferre considered this. “Hazing ritual,” he decided. 

Courfeyrac stared at him momentarily with a twinkle in his dark eyes. For a second, Combeferre was torn between the discomfort of being appraised so openly and the small thrill of catching someone’s attention. He smiled to himself and looked down, breaking eye contact and taking a bite of carrot cake. 

“So, how did you two meet?” He heard Courfeyrac ask, obviously trying to include Enjolras, who was still gathering his thoughts in his notebook, into the conversation. 

Combeferre hesitated. It wasn’t the most interesting or glamorous story. In fact, it was a testament to their unadulterated teenage awkwardness. During the first day of orientation each person had to double up for an activity. Neither Combeferre nor Enjolras managed to find a partner themselves, so the upperclassman who was in charge paired them with each other. 

Combeferre spared Courfeyrac the details. He’d learn of their introverted tendencies if he stuck around long enough. “We met on the first day, in orientation group. We started talking about Star Trek and then politics, and that’s about all Enjolras needs.” 

Enjolras snorted but didn’t look up from his paper. “I take offense to that.”

Courfeyrac raised an accusing eyebrow at him. “Oh, I didn’t realize you were still here.” 

Enjolras made a small _hmmph_ noise and Combeferre laughed. “Okay, fine. My talking points can be ready now if they need to be,” Enjorlas said. 

“Talking points?” Courfeyrac echoed. 

It appeared that Enjolras had made a small faux pas in neglecting to tell Courfeyrac that this was a recruitment rather than a social gathering. Combeferre could explain, but he opted to sip his water and watch the situation unfold instead. 

“While I _did_ ask you to come here to eat with us, Combeferre and I were also hoping you would join a student group we are starting. An activism group,” Enjolras explained.

“Like the university democrats?” Courfeyrac asked.

“More left than that.”

Courfeyrac smirked. “Cool.”

“Is that a yes?” 

Courfeyrac looked from Enjolras to Combeferre and back again. Combeferre was eating his cake again and watching the exchange neutrally. Surely Enjolras wouldn’t have invited Courfeyrac if he hadn’t said something that impressed him in class. He was actually willing to bet that Courfeyrac had actively challenged the professor to receive such a proposition. 

He knew his best friend’s taste. 

Considering all this, Combeferre was not surprised when Courfeyrac broke out into his dimpled smile and nodded. “Yeah, sounds great. What’ve you got?”

Over the course of their-albeit, terrible- meal Enjolras ran through his ideas for the club, and Courfeyrac contributed some of his own opinions. It became clear very quickly why he in particular caught Enjolras’ attention. Courfeyrac was quick and well-informed, and he shared their sweeping ideas for the future. Combeferre also noted that Courfeyrac, like Enjolras, was slightly more radical than he was when it came to implementing these ideas. 

It was a lively conversation with lots of laughing, mostly fueled by Courfeyrac and his attempts to steal Enjolras’ slice of cake since they ran out for the night. He balanced their dynamic naturally, which Comebferre considered to be the greatest asset he had to offer their potential group. He was energetic, of course, but he projected a soft warmth that invited others to bask in it, like the hour before sunset. 

Combeferre had met other people in his life that were outgoing and affectionate, but none had the focus of Courfeyrac. He paid attention to people and made sure that they knew it. 

At one point, Enjolras asked Combeferre to present what he had prepared to the two of them, to which Combeferre rubbed his palms together and spoke about their need to partner and perhaps recruit from other political and social organizations on campus, including the LGBTQ+ center. He received a fleeting but knowing glance from Courfeyrac, one that was aware that Combeferre had prepared virtually nothing, and tinged with the mystery of something unidentifiable. 

He also had no reservations sharing anything and everything about himself right away, from his family background and stories about old conquests, to his plans for the future. Enjolras and Combeferre gladly traded information back-not about conquests, though, because neither boy had ever had one- and under normal circumstances Combeferre wouldn’t offer this kind information to someone he had just met, not because he was uncomfortable, but more because he never felt anyone really cared to hear so early in a friendship. Courfeyrac was different though, and Combeferre knew it, _felt it_ , immediately. 

After dinner, Enjolras headed toward the library while Combeferre and Coureyrac retired to the dorms, a narrow row of buildings wedged between the rec center and student union on the other side of campus. They walked in silence for a little bit, dim street lights casting a pale path of light onto the sidewalk leading the way. 

The air was cold. Not cold enough to warrant a comment, but Combeferre felt compelled to do so anyway, a persisting symptom of being an awkward child who got scolded for allowing silences to stretch too long. Instead, Combeferre wondered how long it would take for these silences to become easy and tensionless, the way they always do with good friends. 

He glanced over at Courfeyrac who was looking around curiously as if he had never seen that part of Campus before. Snowflakes from the sparse flurries caught in his hair while the edges of his ears grew pink from the chill. 

Considering the thinness of his jacket and lack of a winter hat, Combeferre guessed that Courfeyrac came from somewhere warm and sunny. It fit with his personality, he decided. 

“Still adjusting to campus?” The words were out of Combeferre’s mouth before he even knew they were forming. 

“When all the buildings look the same, during the day it’s aesthetically pleasing, but at night-”

“It’s an anxiety dream waiting to happen,” Combeferre agreed. “You’ll get used to it eventually, but the dreams won’t stop.”

Courfeyrac cracked a smile and looked at him. The lights from the streetlamps reflected in his dark eyes. 

“You’re funny. In an unexpected way.”

That marked the second time that night that one of his very confident pronouncements left Combeferre reeling.

“Maybe. Enjolras is more of the slapstick guy in our room,” he laughed nervously. 

“He’s-”

“Intense?”

“-sweet.” Courfeyac finished. 

Combeferre grinned. “You’re right.”

“Are you-?” Combeferre watched him quizzically as he began to say something and then decide against it. “Nevermind,” Courfeyrac shook his head. “Which dorm do you live in?”

“LaMarque. The big brown one next to the bus station? On the fifth floor.”

“Oh, cool! I’m in the building right next door.”

“And how’s that?” Combeferre asked, easing into familiar, less stunted conversation.

“I got paired in the dorms with another sophomore but he’s not a transfer. His name is Marius Pontmercy.”

“Never heard of him.” 

“He’s a nice kid. Everyone has been so friendly here so far. My old school, a large public one south of here, was a lot of fun but sometimes…” he searched for a word “-impersonal.” 

“Is that why you transferred?” 

“No, I switched majors. I went there for the theater department but then I realized I wanted to be a lawyer instead,” Courfeyrac explained. “Go figure.”

“They don’t offer pre-law tracks at large public schools?” Combeferre asked knowingly. 

Courfeyrac smiled faintly. “They do-but, I don’t know. Have you ever felt too comfortable somewhere?”

“No,” Combeferre admitted. To him, comfort was something to be preserved, harbored in preparation of looming hardship, not something to take for granted.

“I went to school too close to home. And roomed with a couple of friends from high school who only wanted to hang out with other people from my high school. You’re not supposed to feel stifled at eighteen in your first year on your own.”

Combeferre considered this for a moment. “I guess not. But your friends probably didn’t branch out because they couldn’t find a way _to_ get comfortable.” 

“I agree, but that wasn’t me. I needed a change.”

They reached the outside of Courfeyrac’s dorm. Removed from the street, there wasn't much light except from the overhead fixture coming from the vestibule of the building. It cast a shadow on Courfeyrac’s face, darkening half of it, but Combeferre could swear he still saw the dimple through the darkness. 

“And how do you feel about that change so far?” Combeferre said into the space between them. His warm breath came out in misty puffs despite the softness of his voice. 

“Better than I thought I would.”

Later, when walking into the lobby of his dorm, Combeferre realized he could now count the amount of friends he had on two hands. He wasn’t sure if it was the landmark achievement or something entirely different, but it felt significant. 

**~~~**

At the same moment, in the building next door, Courfeyrac reached his room. Ignoring a flustered Marius, he relished the feeling of something joyful building inside of him and promptly face-planted into his pillow. 

**~~~**

Courfeyrac joined them for dinner again that weekend, much to the delight of the newly introduced Joly and Bossuet. Ever since freshman year, the four boys had made an effort to eat as a group each Friday before a night of movie-watching or an intense Pokemon tournament. Courfeyrac’s invitation to such a meal stood as an informal inauguration into their, as Joly liked to call it, “posse”, and all the traditions that came with it. 

“I agree with you that ‘squad’ is overdone,” Courfeyrac told Joly through a mouth full of fries, “But maybe we should go for something with more flair, like,” he waggled his eyebrows “ _entourage.”_

Combeferre was trying to listen to Enjolras over the sound of their loud conversation and failing miserably. They had made an astounding amount of headway with the activism group the past week, with Enjolras even managing to round up a few student workers that were interested in meeting with them. The details were murky, however, because Courfeyrac chose the seat right next to Combeferre and was loudly debating the connotations of various titles for their group. 

“I dunno,” Bossuet said, “Doesn’t entourage imply a central figure?” 

“You’re right,” Courfeyrac frowned. “Enjolras, thoughts on being the central figure of our entourage?”

Enjolras, who was telling the story of how he’d met a boy in his environmental science class called Feuilly, turned to Courfeyrac. “Abstained.” 

He then continued talking to Combeferre, who didn’t hear much of the story. He was too busy noticing how Courfeyrac added a discernible cheerfulness to the group, and in turn, noticing that he noticed it. 

“How about ‘patrol’?” Joly suggested. 

This made Enjolras’s gaze snap in their direction. “I will have no affiliation with the police, connotative or otherwise,” he said. 

Combeferre, noticing things again, saw Courfeyrac’s eyes dance with amusement at this comment.

Bossuet shook his head, “Nah, I agree with Joly. We could spin it for patrol to be an ironic thing. Like, _patrolling for the rights of cops to shut the fuck up_.”

“If I’m not mistaken, the word posse also has roots in policing,” Combeferre said. “And I think that if we are going to go all-in on subversion, then we go for something stronger, like ‘force.’” 

Courfeyrac, delighted at his entrance into the conversation, beamed at him. Combeferre grinned back briefly before looking down and eating one of his own fries. 

“I don’t know why we can’t just call ourselves friends,” Enjolras complained. 

Courfeyrac, who was still looking at Combeferre, turned to him. “That’ll be good. For now.”

That night, the group of boys decided to forego movies and Pokemon in favor of board games and bottom-shelf rum courtesy of Courfeyrac’s fake ID. By 1 am, they were in the middle of a game of Clue and collectively drunk. Even Enjolras had enough alcohol in his system to insist each turn that Colonel Mustard was the killer, despite the fact that Combeferre showed him that the card was in his hand and not in the envelope at least three times. 

“It’s a _strategy,”_ Enjolras proclaimed. 

Combeferre, who’s logic was fuzzy at that point, couldn’t argue with that. 

“Yeah, and besides he’s a Colonel so he’s definitely killed someone before,” Bossuet said. “We should just end the game now.”

“I now pronounce you guilty of war crimes!” Joly exclaimed. 

Combeferre laughed. “I don’t think that’s how that works.”

“Wait wait wait,” Courfeyrac stuck his hand in the air and paused dramatically. “I am on Combeferre’s side,” he declared. 

Bossuet snorted. Joly stared at Courfeyrac and said flatly, “Of course you are.”

Enjolras erupted into a fit of laughter and once he calmed down, asked “Is it my turn again? I have a good guess.”

Combeferre had been drunk twice before and, like the other times, limbs lingered over others a little too long, personalities concentrated into stronger versions of themselves, and he spent the whole time thinking about how he isn’t very fond of not having complete control over himself. For many people, inebriation was some sort of escape from themselves and their problems. Combeferre felt more like he was getting on a rollercoaster that kept breaking down- fun, sometimes even thrilling, but tainted with a lurking suspicion that you could be upended at any moment. And you know, biologically speaking, hangovers suck. 

The harsh fluorescent light of the dormitory didn’t reach all corners of the room, leaving the group of boys in low lighting and shadows. As the night went on, images blurred together and spun into echoes of laughter and inane conversation. What started as a soft warmth in his ears from the embrace of alcohol became a dull heat from the proximity of the beat-up radiator and Courfeyrac at his side. 

“So, like, I was all _maybe you should learn not to be a dickwad._ And he was like-” Bossuet narrated, gesturing wildly.

“Hey-” someone whispered at Combeferre’s side. 

He turned his attention from the conversation to find Courfeyrac leaning in next to him, closer than he was before. Combeferre was aware Courfeyrac had substantially more to drink than he did, not just from the alcohol on his breath, but the unfocused stare of his wide brown eyes. 

Combeferre was still drunk though, so he couldn’t help but smile lopsidedly at the sight of his new friend leaning toward him, unbalanced but playfully happy from alcohol and camaraderie. 

“Yes?”

“When I was younger I had a crush on Professor Plum.”

Combeferre looked down at his purple game piece, now abandoned under the litter of disposable cups and rainbow goldfish. “Why not Miss Scarlett?” he asked.

Courfeyrac just laughed and shook his head. Then, he said “give me your glasses.” 

Normally Combeferre was bored and vaguely annoyed with anyone who wanted to comment on his despicably strong prescription lenses, but it was Courfeyrac and that somehow made a difference, so he took them off and handed them to him. 

Instead of putting them on though, Courfeyrac set them carefully to the side on a clean patch of carpet and took Combeferre’s shoulders. “Okay, no blinking,” he ordered.

“Are we having a staring contest? That’s not fair if I can’t see your face well enough to know if you blink.” 

“No, no, not a contest. I need to memorize the color.” Courfeyrac said leaning forward and staring into Combeferre’s eyes determinedly. 

Something struck in Combeferre’s gut. Fondness, perhaps. “Why do you need to memorize them?” he asked. His mouth was dry. Maybe he needed some more alcohol. 

Courfeyrac frowned and pulled away slightly. “Why does someone need to memorize anything? So I don’t forget.” He said this as if it was obvious, and maybe it was.

Courfeyrac leaned in again. He smelled like cheap rum and something Combeferre recognized that he liked. 

His vision was a kaleidoscope of browns and twinkling christmas lights, fluorescent bulbs and shadow, but Combeferre felt strangely serene with warm fingers on his shoulders and the sound of his friends laughing next to him but distantly. 

And so the night went. 

The next morning, Combeferre would realize that they learned a lot about each other that night, things he was too drunk to notice at the time. One, that Courfeyrac was a cuddler-that he enveloped Joly, Bossuet, and Enjolras like they were teddy bears and embraced their faces the way one naturally does when they meet a new dog. Two, that he did not receive the same treatment. Instead, Courf would sidle up beside him and pepper him with silly questions or lean across the expanse between them to tell him a joke that was only for him to hear. Three, that Combeferre knew he wasn’t an immediately affectionate guy and that he certainly exuded that quality to others, but that didn’t stop him from feeling weirdly on-edge when he was on the receiving end of a mischievous glance or lingering stare instead of a friendly hug. 

Normally, these sorts of things wouldn’t bother him. It wasn’t proof, and he wasn’t even sure what it could be proof _of_ , but when he played it back in his mind it was enough-just enough to notice. 

**~~~**

Courfeyrac woke up at noon the next day. His head didn’t hurt and he had a light homework load for the weekend, but he was under duress. _Emotionally_. (Please excuse the melodrama, it was early.) 

He turned to Marius, who was sitting at his desk. “Hey Pontmercy, _you’re_ oblivious-”

**~~~**

The next few weeks passed steadily. Time never flew when he was bogged down with schoolwork and commitments, but the routine of each day was comfortable enough that when Comebferre looked back on it, it seemed to have passed in a daze. 

Their social justice organization gained two new members-Feuilly, the guy from Enjolras’s environmental science class, and Jehan, someone Courfeyrac met in a coffee shop and inevitably became friends with. They had more leads for new members too-Muchietta, a girl who worked in the student-run bakery, a 1L law student named Bahorel who Combeferre and Joly met when he came into their clinic, and even Courfeyrac’s roommate, the allusive Marius Pontmercy. 

Combeferre had honestly never felt so social in his life- even if he wasn’t exactly the one forging the new connections, he wanted to be someone the new members of the group trusted, someone to steady their passions so it wouldn’t burn too hot and too quickly. Being committed to activism was something that wore on most people, mentally and physically. Hope built you up and anger broke you down, so Combeferre inserted logic wherever he could to maintain his own sanity. 

While Combeferre played this role, Courfeyrac was the light the moths flocked to and Enjolras the flame inside. The trio was undeniably efficient for a group that had just met the month before, and the combination of their personalities gave Combeferre power he wasn’t aware he had. Courfeyrac softened Enjolras where Combeferre focused him. Enjolras motivated Combeferre and was an equal crusader for Courfeyrac. Courfeyrac made Combeferre feel a lot of things. Namely, personable and valued in a way he hadn’t felt before. Courfeyrac had that effect on everyone though, a true testament to his power. 

Combeferre wasn’t exactly sure what he had to offer Courfeyrac, though. He knew that friendship wasn’t an exchange of personal growth and self-esteem between two people but he did believe that most enjoy the company of others who help them become more than they are. And to that end, his relationship with Courfeyrac was particularly confusing because Courfeyrac had more or less declared Combeferre his favorite of the group in numerous unspoken ways. 

At every meal, Courf saved him a seat. During a night out Combeferre was the first one he called for a drunken phone conversation. Courfeyrac even christened a nickname for him, one that started out as cutesy and purposeful and soon became the only thing he ever called him. 

_Ferre. FerreFerreFerre._

He wondered if he’d denied himself this kind of friendship throughout his childhood and teen years by being emotionally inaccessible or if Courfeyrac was just... _like that._

Whatever the case, the world felt smaller and friendlier with Courfeyrac around. When Combeferre drove him to the grocery store to get sweets, Courfeyrac sang top 40 hits at the top of his lungs and made people who stared boredly at stoplights grin to themselves. When they walked through the quad in between classes Courfeyrac would stop to chat with people he barely knew, just to be friendly. 

Combeferre would stand and smile pleasantly or try to make small talk, and in the car he’d share an amused glance with other drivers. Courfeyrac removed the pane of glass that stood between people, closed the distance between strangers and acquaintances. 

One unanticipated drawback of this, however, was his insistence that Combeferre attend a party every once in a while. Combeferre, who certainly had the capacity to be fun-loving, tended to gravitate toward smaller gatherings and university-mandated activities. Even Courfeyrac’s superpowers could not make him enjoy a house party the way most people would. 

But Combeferre was quickly learning that he had a soft spot for Courfeyrac, one that the ladder had noticed and was now comfortable taking advantage of. All he had to do was widen his eyes, tilt his head to the side and pout, and Combeferre would do what he wanted maybe 80% of the time. It wasn’t a trick that Courf pulled often, or even one that he used to make Combeferre do things he would never do-just something that took the time it would normally take to persuade him to say yes to something and cut it in half. 

Enjolras, when witnessing this sequence of events, would turn to Combeferre and ask with pity, “Really?” Combeferre usually shrugged and thought about how he didn’t use to be that easy. 

Which is how Combeferre found himself in front of the mirror in his dorm on the last Friday night of February, fastening a belt to his jeans. Getting ready for a party. 

He supposed it wouldn’t have to be unpleasant. Most of his friends would be there, and the alcohol was free. Even Enjolras, who normally avoided Courfeyrac like the plague when he mentioned “going somewhere fun this weekend” had warily agreed to attend. 

Combeferre assumed he would stand in the corner, drink a beer, discuss the new PBS documentary with Feuilly, listen to Courfeyrac unfold the happenings of some drama or another, drink another beer, and go home. If he was feeling wild, he’d have a jack and coke and then he and Joly would scour the host’s house to see if they had a pet. Such were the thrilling events of his life. 

When he and Enjolras arrived at whatever person’s house it was, the party was in full swing, and pretty standard in his experience. Furniture was pushed oddly into the corners to make space in the middle of the living room. Something with a heavy bass that he’d never heard before blared from an unidentifiable speaker. The room was dimly lit with fairy lights and the hallways leading deeper into the house were dark and narrow, littered with flirting couples and awkward attendees seeking refuge from the crowd. 

Thankfully, Enjolras texted that they arrived before they entered the house so Courfeyrac met them at the entrance almost immediately. 

“Enjy!” He yelled over the sound of the music. “Ferrebear!”

Courfeyrac had been calling him this for the past week, a consequence of leaving his phone unlocked on his bed where all the text messages from his mom could be seen. Combeferre pretended to be angry at him and wrestled the phone from his hand as Courfeyrac giggled hysterically, but the damage was already done.

Courfeyrac had a mixed drink in his hand, and based on the greeting, someone who didn’t know him well would assume he was already drunk, but Combeferre, who paid an inordinate amount of attention to his eyes could see they were steady. He was sober, maybe tipsy.

“If you keep calling me that, this friendship is going to have to end,” Combeferre warned playfully, as Courfeyrac led them to a quieter corridor between the main room and the kitchen. 

“Don’t tempt me. If this ends, are you going to demote me to acquaintance or would I get a promotion?”

Combeferre stopped in his tracks. Enjolras coughed loudly and sped into the kitchen toward the beer. 

“What?” 

Courfeyrac began to say something but was interrupted by Jehan who appeared at their side, seemingly out of nowhere. “Hey, come critique this bookshelf with me, please, it’s hilarious,” they said to Comebferre. He shot Courf a quick parting smile in apology and left him standing in the hallway by himself. 

The night carried on and the party with it, and Combeferre found himself having a good time despite the fact that he’d prefer to be doing at least ten other things instead. He did enjoy that his friends were enjoying themselves, though, and opted for the jack and coke-partially because of the appeal of liquor, but also to account for any residual concern that would crop up if he stayed too sober in a house with so many health code violations. 

He and Jehan also had a great time making fun of the amount of Hemingway on the host’s shelves. This was perhaps a little rude of them considering there was no cover for entry, but Combeferre was tipsy, 20 years old, and frankly did not give a shit. 

Courfeyrac and Enjolras spent a lot of the party on the other side of the room talking to a shaggy, artsy looking guy with a handle of Absolut in his hand. Combeferre made note to ask about it later, because it either meant that they had a lead for a new member or that someone had managed to entertain Enjolras for an hour, which was equally exciting. Strangely though, Courfeyrac seemed unengaged in the conversation because whenever Combeferre glanced in their direction, he caught Courf watching him distractedly. 

Combeferre wasn’t sure why he didn’t approach him to ask if something was wrong. To be fair, he was preoccupied with Joly, Jehan, and Feuilly, but something about what Courfeyrac said earlier, ‘ _would I get a promotion?’_ kept his feet cemented in place. He also reasoned that if Courfeyrac wanted to talk to him, he was the kind of person who would come to him and just start talking. 

It was no problem. At least that was what he told himself. 

Sometime later, Combeferre migrated to the kitchen. He watched as Bossuet-always a supporter, but ever the klutz-held people’s feet as they did keg stands on the slippery tile floor. Combeferre told himself he was there enjoying the show, but he was actually preparing to do emergency concussion testing at a second’s notice.

Courfeyrac entered the room and sauntered to where he was stationed near the toaster. Surprisingly, he was still nursing the same drink from when they arrived. “What’s up?” Combeferre asked, not taking his eyes away from Bossuet and the girl whose legs he was haphazardly balancing upright.

“Nothing much. Enjy found a boy to flirt-argue with,” he offered. 

Combeferre cracked a smile. “God bless.” 

“So,” Courfeyrac leaned toward him and rested an elbow on his shoulder. “Looking forward to playing doctor, I take it?” The girl was still chugging and the group gathered in the kitchen chanted higher _27_... _28...29..._

Combeferre shook his head ruefully. “This is so dangerous, I can’t even look away.” He picked up his foot to show Courfeyrac the bottom of it. “And the beer on the floor has literally seeped into my shoes.”

Courfeyrac laughed with his full face and Combeferre momentarily forgot that he was acting weird just minutes before. That is, until he looked down and picked at the fabric of Combeferre’s shirt on his bicep. “This looks good on you, by the way,” he said.

Comebferre had to suppress a confused frown.“Thanks.” 

They stood in silence for a moment watching the girl dismount the keg. It was very loud for a silence, elevated by the buzz of laughter and voices surrounding them. Courfeyrac would usually be recounting some gossip he’d heard or singing whatever song was echoing in the other room, but his face was purposefully blank. He was the type to display his emotions on his face loud and clear, but when he hid them, he hid them well.

“Come with me to the other room,” he said abruptly. 

“And leave the kids unsupervised?” Combeferre asked.

Courfeyrac’s face smoothly transformed back to his normal, fun loving smile. “There are other kids to supervise,” he said mischievously. “Besides, I need you more than they do.” 

Combeferre almost didn’t notice that last comment. 

  
  


“Does this mean we’re going to meddle?” Combeferre guessed, thinking back to Enjolras and the boy with the vodka. 

“Ferre, you wound me! Of course not, it’s called espionage.” Courfeyrac grabbed his hand and led him into the living room, weaving through sweaty, fumbling strangers. 

“Spying implies discretion,” Combeferre argued amusedly, “maybe even stealth, which-”

“-I possess in bulk, thank you very much. Now...over here,” Courfeyrac pulled him by the hand into a dark corner that was oddly far away from Enjolras and the boy considering the purpose of their mission. 

Combeferre laughed nervously. “This is what you call espionage? Also, don’t we resent the CIA?”

“Yes, but can you think of a better option?” Courfeyrac asked. “KGB LARPing?”

Combeferre was momentarily reminded that Courfeyrac’s mind was a beautiful, ridiculous place, and how fond he was of it. 

“Yes, actually. Charlie’s angels _and_ the Totally Spies.” Combeferre said, which earned him a grin before Courfeyrac snuck a glance at Enjolras. 

“What do you think theyre talking about?” He wondered aloud. “Something sexy.”

Combeferre watched them for a second. Enjolras was frowning, brow creased down the middle in a way that meant he felt very strongly about what he was saying. “Abolishing private equity.”

Courfeyrac giggled. “Ranked voting in local government.”

“Okay, but that _is_ sexy,” Combeferre said into his drink. 

“Oh my god-no-” Courfeyrac stuck a hand on Combeferre’s chest. “filibuster as a form of roleplay.”

Combeferre burst into laughter. “What? Like edging?” He asked through gasps of breath.

Courfeyrac lost it at this comment, and they both conspicuously dissolved into giggles.

Enjolras caught their eye from the other side of the room and glared at them. “Fuck, we might actually be right about that-oh shit,” They looked away quickly, but continued to laugh harder, as any joke at Enjolras’s expense made it that much more funny. 

“Here-pretend like we’re doing something.” Courfeyrac grabbed one of Combeferre’s forearms and started fiddling with the sleeves of his shirt. 

“What’re you doing?” 

“I don’t know, occupying myself?” Courfeyrac’s fingers rolled up the fabric up to one elbow. 

“I think he knows that we’re watching him, you don’t have to pretend,” Combeferre said, for lack of anything else to say. 

“Maybe I just think they look better that way,” Courf smiled up at him as his laughter calmed. 

Something tightened in Combeferre’s gut. 

“By all means then,” He held Courf’s gaze for a second, and something flashed behind the dark brown of his eyes, a decision, Combeferre would later realize. 

“Hey so, what’re you doing tomorrow night?” Courfeyrac asked casually, finishing Combeferre’s second sleeve and innocuously leaving his hands holding onto his arm. 

Combeferre racked his brain, the alcohol was making it hard to concentrate. “Immunology? Why? Do you want to come over and watch Fiddler On The Roof? I just got the dvd for three dollars at the thrift store-”

A pained look crossed Courfeyrac’s face. “Yeah, totally, but not tomorrow. I thought we could go somewhere like the planetarium and get food afterward. Just us,” he added, “like a date.”

And with those words, the world tilted off its axis. Combeferre felt foreign in his body, in the house. His thoughts should have been racing but his mind was strangely blank. He should’ve felt conflicted, or even given more thought to what he’s just heard. Instead, his brain and body chanted in protest, insisted it was time to run.The words came out without thinking. He wasn’t sure of what he said until his mind repeated it over and over while he laid in bed that night. He also didn’t realize this was the moment he stepped away and the moment hope fell from Courf’s face. 

“I’m not sure that would be a good idea.” 

“I-okay.” Courf’s voice was fragile, defensive. 

Combeferre looked up, around the room. At the fairy lights, and red solo cups on the bookshelf, at his friends watching them across the room, anywhere but at him. “We should go talk outside.”

“No, no it’s fine. It was silly of me to even-”

“Not silly.” Combeferre interrupted. When he looked down, Courfeyrac was staring down at the dirty carpet. “We just became such good friends so quickly...” he continued, struggling to find something to say. 

“Yeah, totally. Um. I don’t know, it was just a dumb thought-I don’t want to make you uncomfortable or-”

“I’m not uncomfortable-” Combeferre interrupted again even though his mind was screaming _let him speak._ “I just hope I didn’t give you the wrong idea.”

“No honestly, just totally forget about it. I was getting ahead of myself. I thought-I thought-” Courfeyrac still wasn’t looking at him and his voice was growing strange and husky. 

“We’d just be better as friends.” Combeferre said. And that was the nail in the coffin. 

Courfeyrac’s gaze finally shot up at him. The expression on his face was guarded, and rightly so. But it still hurt-and Combeferre babbled, trying to recover, to justify to himself how he could hurt one of his closest friends. “It would be messy with the group, and we’re just not on the same page? And I love hanging out and I don’t want to lose that because we aren’t at the same point-or,” Combeferre finished lamely. 

“No. Yeah. Definitely, say no more. I was just-yeah.” Courfeyrac’s gaze didn’t meet his eyes. 

They stood for a second, not moving. The people partying around them suddenly felt obnoxious.

“So, I’m gonna go over there now. I’ll see you later?” Courfeyrac said, backing toward Jehan and forcing a smile.

Combeferre nodded and gulped. Something akin to dread settled in his stomach. 

Drama must have ensued afterward, but he didn’t really remember. When he tried to drink another beer, it tasted horrible, and even though the party should have been calming down by that hour, it just got louder and louder. 

Combeferre decided to leave not long later, but there was one mistake he didn’t make. Before he left he said goodbye to all his friends. He looked Courfeyrac in the eye and smiled warmly. He hoped it said what he had wanted to say all along. 

_I’m sorry._

**~~~**

In short, the world fucking sucked and there wasn’t much more Courfeyrac could say on the matter. 

**~~~**

Combeferre didn’t see Enjolras until noon the next day. He was already asleep by the time his friend got back, and when he woke up, drowsy and miserable, Enjolras had already gone to the library. 

He tried to focus on things besides the party to no avail. He phoned his mom, who called him Ferrebear and he suddenly became so upset that he had to pretend to have a headache so he could get off the line. His second tactic was to do some homework, which was honestly just really stupid of him. 

Eventually he got the nerve to go on a walk, and he took his backpack in hopes he’d be able to settle his mind enough to focus on his biochem homework. He ended up dragging himself to the library after stopping in the dining hall and gorging himself on french toast sticks. 

Enjolras was at their usual place in the library, a table on the fourth floor next to the vacant graduate student corrals. No one was around except for him, and Combeferre imagined this was because most people were still recovering from partying the night before. Goodness knows he was. 

He sat down with a loud _thunk_ and dug through his backpack. The nervous ache in his stomach persisted and his abrupt movements betrayed his fatigue enough for Enjolras to notice something was wrong. Combeferre was honestly surprised he didn’t know already. 

“You look beat. You didn’t have that much to drink, did you?”

“No,” Combeferre sighed. 

Enjolras frowned. “Then what is it?”

“I got propositioned. By Courfeyrac.” 

Enjolras was unsurprised. “And?”

“I said no,” Combeferre explained, “obviously. And he seemed...upset.” The low tone of Courf’s voice and the distance on his face lingered in Combeferre’s mind. “I don’t think I explained myself well because I was shocked for a minute there. And drunk.” 

“You were shocked?”

Combeferre stared at him. “...Yes?”

“Ferre, you cannot say you didn’t see the signs,” Enjolras said, setting his pen down.

“Signs?” he echoed stupidly. 

“A couple weeks after we met him he asked me what your ‘deal’ was. We were sitting at this table, actually.” 

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I thought you knew he was flirting and were just ignoring it, I guess?” Enjolras shrugged. “Or being awkward,” he added. 

Which... _rude._

“He flirts with everyone,” Combeferre argued. But he thought back to every exchange he had with Courfeyrac. The night they first met. That time they played Clue. Whenever he treated Combeferre differently than the rest of their friends. 

So maybe he did know. So maybe he was just astoundingly good at ignoring things he didn’t want to see. 

“Yes, but it’s not the same. With other people he’s kind of jokey about it. With you he has more purpose,” Enjolras said. 

“Well, it doesn’t matter now anyway. We made amends, sort of.” 

“That’s good, if that’s what you wanted.” 

“Why wouldn’t that be what I wanted?” Combeferre asked. 

“Because you seem upset.”

Combeferre thought about that. He wasn’t sure any outcome would have made him _not_ feel this way. And what did he feel? Anxiety? Dread? He was normally good at knowing himself. 

What happened shouldn’t have been a big deal, but he made it one. Combeferre was overreacting, especially since he was sure they’d both forget all about it a month from now, so what was the melodrama for? Was he compensating for the fact that he was never dramatic about anything else? 

Or was there more to it? Did he... _regret it?_

_No,_ he assured himself. _Definitely not._ He didn’t like Courf that way and he didn’t want to ruin their friendship. That was clear. 

“I’m just worried this is going to make things weird between us.”

“Of course it will,” Enjolras said. “The two of you are only human. When you calm down, make an effort to be a good friend again. Go out of your way. I think he’d appreciate that.”

It was a rare moment that reminded Combeferre how much Enjolras listened to people, and how he knew what they needed. “You’re right, thanks.” 

Enjolras shrugged and went back to his homework. 

With that, Combeferre took out his phone. He opened his message thread with Courfeyrac and typed 

_> Do you want to watch fiddler next weekend? We’ll invite everyone and I’ll use the dorm kitchen to make jello jigglers. _

It only took a minute or two for him to respond, and as Combeferre waited he twiddled his thumbs nervously. 

A buzz from his phone

_> That sounds really nice. I’ll bring those gross vanilla oreos as long as you promise to make the red flavor. _

Combeferre frowned at the screen

_> We’ve been over this several times. There are two kinds of red. Cherry and strawberry. _

_> Red. Fight me, Ferrebear _

Combeferre realized then that after a surprise, or even a disaster, that with the right people, it wasn’t so hard to find your footing again. 

**~~~**

Courfeyrac had never been in a real relationship, and maybe he never would. He told himself that was good enough. 

**~~~**

1 year and 6 months later, August 

Combeferre generally wasn’t one to complain, but he felt terrible. 

He was jet lagged from the plane ride, customs and immigration were traumatic as always, and because of the turbulence, he wasn’t able to read the paperback he bought at the airport without developing a massive headache. 

He shouldn’t have been wallowing in self-pity, though, considering his summer abroad in Peru had otherwise been amazing, and because he was returning home to where his friends were presumably waiting for him with wide open arms. His suspicions were confirmed when he exited into the terminal and saw, over the sea of people in front of him, Courfeyrac, Marius, and Cosette waiting in the crowd. His heart swelled at the sight of Courf looking anxiously into the stream of passengers for him, and he grinned to himself, headache slipping away as he started toward them. 

Cosette held a poster in her hands that read “Welcome back Ferre!!” in large glittery letters, far too neat to be by the hand of his other two friends, who would probably get more on their face than the paper if they held a glitter pen, and Combeferre appreciated the gesture. 

It was Marius who spotted him first, pointing excitedly in his direction. Cosette jumped up and down to see over the swarms of tall bodies and Courf’s face lit up into a beaming smile as he rushed toward Combeferre. He met them somewhere halfway, Courf attacking him with a big hug and frightening the surrounding patrons before finally allowing Cosette and Marius to have a turn to embrace.

“Welcome back!”

“Thanks,” he sighed gratefully. Catharsis was something Combeferre rarely felt, and he hadn’t realized how much he missed his friends until they stood in front of him. The only one he had consistent contact with over the summer was Courfeyrac, because his best friend would allow nothing less, and because Enjolras spent the summer interning for a non-profit in the middle of nowhere without wifi. But a weekly skype call was no comparison to the real thing, with the comfort of familiar faces and the warmth of tangible flesh unparalleled by the blue-light of a computer screen. 

“We’re so happy to see you! You’ll need to tell us everything over dinner sometime,” Cosette said. 

“Better yet, I’ll try to cook for you. I learned how to make a few dishes.” 

Combeferre and Cosette gushed about Peruvian food on their way out of the terminal and into the parking lot, with Marius adding in his bizarrely specific knowledge of huacatay at various instances and Courf skipping around like it was a holiday. At the car, Cosette announced they needed to part ways. 

“This is for you,” She said, handing him the sign. “Marius and I are on our way to visit Papa so we drove separately.”

Combeferre offered an impressed hum. “This one drove a car by himself? To the airport?” He gestured to Courfeyrac, who was putting his bags in the trunk. 

“On the way here he bragged about how proud of him you were going to be for making it all the way here,” Marius said. 

“Hey! _”_ Courfeyrac objected, “Do you want me to tell everyone your secrets, Marius?”

Marius blushed and shook his head. Cosette poked him on the nose and smiled. “We should be going now, Papa is waiting.”

They bid each other farewell and Combeferre settled in the car. When Courf slid into the driver’s seat, Combeferre commented “Thanks for picking me up, by the way.”

Courf checked his mirrors nervously and began backing out of the parking space. “I couldn’t have you welcomed back into the country for the first time in months by some strange uber driver,” he said. “Besides, I missed you too much to wait.”

Combeferre grinned stupidly out the window. “I missed you too.” A beat of silence. “Does this mean the rules are reversed? I pick the music and you pick the temperature?”

“Um, no. I get to pick both because I exited a parallel parking spot for you.”

“I thought you said Eponine taught you how?”

“Maybe that was an over exaggeration,” he sniffed, holding tightly to the steering wheel. 

Combeferre looked back out to the familiar terrain and accepted the fact that when they arrived at the apartment he’d probably get out and do the parking for him. He’d still pretend like he didn’t want to, though, and Courf would pout at him for a bit before he’d give in. 

“Have you heard from Enjolras yet?” he asked. 

Courf smirked. “The cowboy will be making his triumphant return from the countryside next week. He managed to get reception while he was in the state capitol last weekend.”

“We should all go out to dinner or something.”

“Actually, I was thinking about that…”

“And?” Combeferre grinned cheekily in anticipation. 

“Well I found this restaurant in the suburbs where they only serve fried chicken and you can color on the tables with crayon. The building is shaped like a barn, and I thought what better way to welcome him back than make sure he doesn’t experience a culture shock?”

“That’s very sweet of you. He’ll hate it.” 

They spent the rest of the ride chatting about Courf’s law school applications-he killed the LSAT, by the way-and eventually made it back to Combeferre and Enjolras’ apartment. 

After dinner, they spent the evening on the couch watching movies with Courfeyrac’s legs propped over his lap while they shared a large bowl of popcorn. Courf fell asleep about half way through some 80’s rom-com about Tom Hanks and a mermaid that he insisted they watch, but Combeferre didn’t pay attention because he kept getting distracted by how happy he felt being home again. When the movie was over Combeferre prodded him awake. “Hey, time for bed.”

“Oh shit,” Courf rubbed his sleepy eyes. “Can I stay here?” Combeferre didn’t believe that wasn’t his original plan. 

“Yeah sure, Enjolras’ bed is open if you want.”

“Haha,” he said flatly and walked towards Combeferre’s room. “The last time I slept in there my back was sore for a week.”

Combeferre remembered. Courf spent the remainder of that week making _‘What’s harder than Enjolras’ bed?’_ jokes, which were well-received by nearly everyone except for Enjolras. 

Rifling through his drawer, Courf decided on the oversized shirt Grantaire bought Combeferre for his 21st birthday that said _Disney Mom_ in bright letters- “I couldn’t not buy it for you,” R explained. “And it was like, 5 bucks,”- and stumbled into bed. 

If there was one blessing Combeferre was thankful for, it was his graduation from the twin XL in the dorms to the spacious double he bought a garage sale the summer before their junior year. He’d shared it with only a handful of people: Courfeyrac, Enjolras while they had company, Joly who once got stranded in the apartment during a snowstorm, and Combeferre’s singular conquest, a boyfriend of two and a half months named Alexandre.

He settled into bed and turned off his lamp. Courf was taking steady, low breaths, already dead to the world. Combeferre was constantly jealous of this talent-Courf fell asleep immediately and stayed stubbornly unconscious even when Enjolras was stomping angrily around their kitchen making coffee in the middle of the night. 

Combeferre was the type to gaze at the ceiling for an hour, urging his body to surrender to slumber, and that night was not unlike the others. He still couldn’t get comfortable even after a tiring transcontinental flight and not sleeping on his own bed for months. He punched his pillow in frustration and flipped onto his side. 

He hadn’t shared a bed with anyone since his ex-a breakup that occurred one month before he left for Peru. Combeferre initiated it. 

In hindsight, Alexandre likened himself more prodigious than even a Dumas or a Desplat. He had the strange power of bringing things to his attention that Combeferre didn’t see before-he was challenging and Combeferre always prided himself on handling challenges gracefully. It wasn’t until Combeferre was somewhere in the mountains of Peru that he realized what he liked most about Alexandre were qualities one would normally look for in a textbook and not a boyfriend. 

The relationship started well enough. They met in a medical ethics seminar where they bonded over arguing with white philosophy students that saw the subject as a thought experiment where they could play devil's advocate rather than what it really was. 

All his friends seemed to like Alexandre at the time, excited by the fact that someone had managed to catch his generally uninterested eye. It wasn’t until afterward that Combeferre got a singular honest opinion of Alexandre out of Grantaire: “A cool dude but, totally an asshole. And that’s coming from me.”

The sound of Courfeyrac breathing in the darkness harmonized with flashes of images from the night they broke up, and converged into a whirl of memories. 

Combeferre began the conversation by saying he thought they should break up because he was going away for so long, and that they wouldn’t make it through to the school year. Alexandre argued that there were ways to get around the distance, like video calls. Then Combeferre admitted that he didn’t think that their relationship could ever be enough. 

The fight that ensued was mostly one-sided, but Combeferre held his ground and what came of it was Alexandre pulling out his magic trick-his ability to see right through and around Combeferre like some morally-fucked psychic who got too high off the validation of their own prophecies.

Alexandre yelled at him, unblinking. “You _other_ yourself constantly. You don’t put yourself above or below anyone else, you distance yourself so far off in another universe that _you can’t reach_ anybody. And then you turn around and blame it on our relationship, and how it wasn’t enough, and that’s why you couldn’t get there for us, as if I had anything to do with it at all!” He finished, breathing heavily for a moment. When Combeferre didn’t respond, just gazed silently, Alexandre huffed and stalked towards the door. 

Combeferre turned, perhaps to petulantly have the last word, but when Alexandre opened the door, Enjolras and Courfeyrac stood frozen beyond the threshold, having heard everything. Alexandre laughed humorlessly and the last words Combeferre heard him speak were, oddly enough, directed at Courfeyrac. “Good luck,” he scoffed, then left forever. 

Enjolras walked in and immediately put the kettle on for tea. Courfeyrac dropped his bag in the middle of the floor and slowly inched toward him. He put a consoling hand on Combeferre’s back and murmured something along the lines of “he’s wrong, he didn’t mean it.” The words were strangely empty coming from Courfeyrac. He never blindly repeated the easiest things to say.

Combeferre swallowed his emotions down and didn’t make eye contact. “No. He’s right.”

He took the silence that followed as an admittance of truth. 

Still staring at the ceiling, Combeferre blinked and rubbed his face. The light from the window glowed too bright in the darkness and his pillow grew hot. Courfeyrac was warm at his side and his breathing coincided with the heightening sound of the ticking clock. 

The events of the day rolled through Combeferre’s mind involuntarily, mundane but bothersome. The vacant concourse in Lima at 5 am. Courf searching the crowd at the airport. Combeferre parallel parking the car as Courf applauded him from the curb. The television playing the movie for no one. 

In an instant, Combeferre decided he needed to sleep on the floor. He arranged his pillow and a throw blanket on the scratchy carpet and stared at the untouched darkness under the bed. He left Courfeyrac’s sprawling limbs on uncovered sheets that caught in the seeping moonlight. 

He felt better that way, on the floor. Even if he couldn’t fall asleep before the morning glow edged into the room. 

**~~~**

When Courfeyrac woke up in the morning he found Combeferre sleeping on the floor. Perched on the edge of the bed, he tilted his head and wondered if he smelled bad. 

_No,_ he decided. _Combeferre’s just being weird again._

**~~~**

It was the third week of the semester when Coufeyrac screamed in the library. 

Later, he would argue to Combeferre that it was a yelp, but- “AGHH!”

Enjolras shot Courf a disappointed look over the ledge of his computer but waited for an explanation. Combeferre glanced over curiously. “Is the theater department putting on _Twelfth Night_ this semester?” he guessed. 

“Don’t I fucking wish,” Courf sighed. “But this is still good news. I got into law school here!”

Combeferre then yelped himself, ignoring the disgruntled students at the table beside theirs. “Oh, that’s amazing, Courf!” he said, standing to give him a hug. Relief flooded his veins like a particularly potent drug. He was going to med-school in the city and Enjolras had already been accepted into a law program on the other side of town. They would all stay together next year. 

Enjolras offered a very-unEnjolrasian high five over the table. Courfeyrac grinned and accepted both congratulations happily. 

“Do you know what this means?” Courf said after Combeferre sat down again.

“Uh-”

“I’m totally moving in with you guys. Triumvirate apartment!” He whispered excitedly. “Oh my god, I need to make a pinterest board for this,” he muttered to himself, furiously clicking at his computer. 

Enjolras cleared his throat. “About that,” he started awkwardly, “I was actually thinking of getting my own place for next year. Just with class being so far away from here, and I don’t have a car.”

Combeferre nodded. That was practical. 

Courfeyrac frowned but suddenly perked a second later. “Oooh, _‘C squared takes the big city’_ that will be our concept.” Courf turned to Combeferre. “Okay, what kind of color scheme are you into?”

Combeferre indulged him. “That concept sounds like we need some blues,'' he said.

Courf nodded in agreement. “You’re right. But we’re definitely not doing any cityscape silhouettes. Those are so tacky-”

“Can you two take your interior decorating meeting somewhere else?” Enjolras complained. “Also, are you just abandoning Marius?” 

Courfeyrac waved him off. “He’s moving in with Cosette after graduation and Papa is _not_ happy about it. Also,” he said to Comebferre, “Consider: family planning.”

Combeferre raised a singular, questioning eyebrow. “Oh?”

“Yes. A child. From the humane society. Preferably a kitten.” 

“Perhaps,” he said, “we need to ask Joly if his allergy medication has been working lately.” Courfeyrac shook his head vigorously in agreement.

Meanwhile, Enjolras loudly got up and shoved his computer and books into his backpack. “This is another reason why I’m moving out,” he said moodily. 

Watching Enjolras’ fluffy blond head stalk to another part of the library, Courf whispered “I think he’s worried he’ll be replaced by the kitten.”

They both dissolved into muffled laughter.

Courfeyrac was still happily monologuing about their prospective apartment after the Les Amis meeting that night. Enjolras stayed behind on the pretense that he had to discuss flyers with Grantaire, when they were actually just going to argue about whatever for another hour, so Courf decided to go back to their place to study with Combeferre. 

It was the same stretch of street that they walked down the night they first met. Combeferre remembered that night fondly. Who would have thought that almost two years later they’d be walking under the same streetlamps talking about their apartment? Who would’ve thought it would become this easy? To stroll through the night and feel the warm autumn breeze on his face and know he’d have his friends forever?

_Maybe I did_ , he thought. The night they met, Combeferre wondered how long it would take for silences to become easy because he knew they eventually would. Courfeyrac was never a question for him, always an answer, a foregone conclusion. 

When Combeferre began thinking too much (a frequent occurrence) he pondered what circumstances drew people together, pushed them apart, what small decisions and minute actions lead him blindly to the here and now. It was easy to fear how easily things could be different, whether it be for better or worse. What opportunity did he miss when he was sick the day of that guest lecture? How close was he to not coming to this school, this city? In the end he was neither convinced nor dismissive of the concept of fate. It hardly seemed like it mattered, at least when he was happy. 

Because when he looked around at his friends at a Les Amis meeting, or just looking at Courfeyrac scrunch his nose in excitement as he prattled on about feature walls, he knew things were not the way they were supposed to be _,_ but the way he wanted them to be. 

“Ferre, where are you going?” Courf stood on the corner under the streetlight, turning in the direction of the apartment. Combeferre froze, suddenly aware of his surroundings again. He blinked.

Courfeyrac laughed and reached out, gently pulling on his wrist. “I’m going to humbly ignore the fact that you didn’t hear anything I just said and chalk it up to unbridled excitement,” he said. “But I won’t be so nice next time.”

“Is that a threat or a promise?” 

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Courfeyrac grinned gleefully, eyes reflecting the warm orange light from above. His fingers were still pressed against Combeferre’s pulse point. 

And suddenly-faster than anything Combeferre could possibly stop- something raw and foreign flared in his gut, spreading to his head, his chest, and leaving pleasant heat in its wake. Something akin to _want_ , he acknowledged bizarrely. 

He hoped distractedly that Courf couldn’t feel the way his heart rate sped up in his wrist, but he didn’t pull his hand away. That was Courfeyrac, a moment later, who sprang into a delighted skip and started walking backwards so he could face Combeferre as he talked. This simultaneously delighted and tortured Combeferre who followed him blindly down the street, urged by the shadows passing hypnotically over his friend’s face. He was so focused on this, in fact, that he was only minutely aware that the intense flare had twisted inside him and settled, to stay. _Selfish want._

“So I was thinking we look for apartments more on the eastern side of campus, mostly because I don’t want to renew the lease on your current place. Because, no offense to you and Enjolras, but it smells weird sometimes and I’m convinced it has to do with the fact that-”

“I think we should look for a place with a balcony. So we can sit outside at night.” Combeferre said out of nowhere. The image appeared in his mind and his mouth formed the words impulsively because his body seemed to be doing whatever it wanted lately. 

“And hang lanterns from the ceiling!” Courf exclaimed. “Ferre, you brilliant little moth-lover. We will make this happen _.”_

Combeferre experienced a moment of emotional whiplash at the heart-flipping image of Courf dancing happily under the streetlamp to disdain at the description of _little moth-lover._ His brain tried to tell him that the name wasn’t favorable for him, but Combeferre’s more logical second brain told him that was silly. 

Their trek to the apartment continued, and Combeferre thankfully calmed down enough to participate in the conversation a little more coherently. Something he was aware he couldn’t control still lurked in the back of his mind, though, tantalizingly near, but Combeferre assured himself that he could handle it. He could navigate unexpected obstacles with poise, certainly something as fleeting as a neurochemical reaction on sidestreet at 10 pm.

They drifted from the topic of their apartment to Courfeyrac’s birthday that was coming up in two weeks. Their friends set up a cheap bar party-one of those deals where you get watery mixed drinks discounted for the whole night and free tickets for shots poured into small plastic cups if you invited enough people. Courfeyrac was in the process of inviting some of his more casual friends from class and debating if he invited so-and-so, if that meant he needed to invite another person to not be rude. 

“Listen to your gut,” Combeferre said unhelpfully as he willfully ignored his own, fiddling with the keys to the apartment vestibule. Courf was close at his side and his skin was buzzing again. _Unprecedentedly persistent want._ “People never care about things as much as you think they’re going to.”

“How very Grantaire of you,” Courf mused, following Combeferre into the building and trailing behind him on the stairs. 

“You know what I mean. Besides, you could always invite whoever you want, not mention the organized party so as to not take up space on the list, and then they’re just another patron at the bar.” They entered Combeferre and Enjolras’ second floor apartment. 

“Smart, smart, Ferre.” Courfeyrac tapped him on the temple. “What would I do without that brain of yours?”

Combeferre shook off his backpack and watched as Courfeyrac sprawled onto the couch. “Invite too many people to your birthday party?” he supplied. 

“Yeah, I guess it doesn’t even matter that much.” He lifted his legs so Combeferre could sit on the couch, then propped them back up over his lap, the way they usually sat. “All I care about is that you guys are there, you know?” he said distantly to the ceiling. 

Combeferre nodded, looking at him look at the ceiling. “Yeah.”

Courf trailed his gaze back down to Combeferre who held the eye contact. He almost couldn’t help himself. Courf’s eyes were warm and expressive, contemplative. Combeferre had a sudden urge, and before he knew it, words were tumbling out of his mouth. “You’re my best friend.”

Courfeyrac looked at him strangely. Probably because Combeferre had suddenly taken up the habit of spontaneously spitting out obvious facts in the middle of conversations. The expression passed quickly though and Courfeyrac responded, just as earnestly, “You’re my best friend too.”

Thankfully, Courfeyrac didn’t stay for the night so Combeferre had time to take a long cold shower and get into bed early so he could stare at the wall and think about the situation very clinically. 

This wasn’t an unfamiliar occurrence either, Combeferre could distinctly remember doing the same the day he realized maybe he wanted to date Alexandre. What was he feeling? Why was he feeling it? What did he want to do? And what were the drawbacks of that impulse? A simple sequence of questions that previously landed him in a short lived but well-worth-it relationship. What really tipped the scales in Alexandre’s favor was Combeferre’s boredom at a lack of a romantic life and the value of experience. In short, he was attracted to Alexandre both physically and romantically, and there had been no drawbacks. 

What he was facing with Courfeyrac was different. 

He thought of how, not an hour earlier, he sat on the couch and stared at the column of Courf’s throat. At his forearms. At his fingers twisting delicate circles into the upholstery of the couch. Combeferre briefly imagined a life as upholstery, being laid upon with warm fingertips on his stomach, and his body burned just a little bit. 

And now he was just enabling himself. 

His brain knew what was happening, and god knew the rest of him did too, but neither part of him wanted to come to terms with the truth. He was momentarily physically attracted to his friend. Certainly not romantically, because if it was he wouldn’t have rejected Courfeyrac two years ago. And besides, who randomly becomes interested in their friend that they’ve known for years standing next to the corner pharmacy on a Wednesday night? That’s right, no one. 

He probably just needed to relax and watch some porn like a normal person. It was only two weeks into the semester and he was already stressed, which was daunting enough. The body reacts in unanticipated ways in unprecedented times, and if the issue persisted Combeferre would reevaluate and figure out a way to deal. Which is to say, find a healthy outlet for his restless feelings. Hell, he might even sleep it off.

The only mercy the night showed him was that he fell asleep quickly. Right before he went under he wondered if he would feel the same way if Courfeyrac were asleep next to him.

**~~~**

Courfeyrac was probably a crazy person. Well okay, he _was_ a crazy person but usually not in the disillusioned way.

And maybe it was stupidly, foolishly, ridiculously, irresponsibly hopeful of him to even consider the possibility, but for a moment, or even just a little baby millisecond he could’ve sworn- _sworn_ that there was something more behind Combeferre’s kind, patient eyes for the first time. A current that undoubtedly roused the other side of the magnet. 

If his unrequited feelings were going to rear their nasty head once again after a relatively quiet year (who was he even fucking kidding that punk philosophy kid drove him nuts), was he going to stomp it dead before it caught hold or let some cruelly oblivious boy turn him into a godforesaken idiot again on the off-chance that history wasn’t going to repeat itself? He needed peanut butter cups and Marius’ ear, he decided, and he thought of that the rest of his walk home. 

**~~~**

Combeferre walked a delicate line the next two weeks. He didn’t avoid Courfeyrac per se, but he did go to small lengths to ensure they weren’t left alone with one another for very long, and only really as a precaution in the beginning. 

Once he made sure to keep his needs met and started watching tv to soothe his noisy thoughts, his perplexing feelings stayed mercifully dormant. 

The incident-such was how he referred to it in his head-was appearing to be a one time thing, an odd fluke, and something he could almost entirely forget about.That is, until Courf got a haircut the week before his birthday, and Combeferre had to endure several baffling days of wanting to touch it. Constantly. 

The most confusing and yet telling part of the situation was the fact that Combeferre wasn’t used to wanting to touch people on his own accord. He was happy to welcome cuddles from anyone with open arms, but the thought to initiate contact never occurred to him. He considered this the largest reason why desire hit him so intensely; he had no practice controlling his impulses because he hadn’t had many before. 

Unfortunately, this line of thinking led to the inevitable question of, _if this does not happen to me, then why is it now?_

(He’s only allowed himself to ponder the answer at 2 am when he was too restless to stop himself.)

Thankfully, he seemed to be hiding it well, as the only person who mentioned his change in behavior was Enjolras. Combeferre was known notoriously by his friends for watching the television show Bones when he was stressed out, and the Tuesday before Courf’s birthday, Enjolras decided to confront him about it while they were studying in the living room.

“Ferre, you should skip the meeting tomorrow, by the way. I can hear _the_ theme song through the wall every night.” Enjolras said, looking through his notes. 

Courfeyrac popped his head out from behind his textbook. “Ferre’s been watching Bones?” he asked, worriedly. 

“Barely any.”

“Then why are you acting so weird?” Enjolras asked.

“He’s been acting weird?”

“I’m just a little stressed out,” he explained.

Courfeyrac looked at him for a second too long and Combeferre was momentarily afraid that he knew. He twitched under Courf’s gaze before it transformed into a grin. “Well good thing we’re gonna party this weekend,” Courfeyrac said, at last. 

Party, they did. And by ‘they’, all of the Les Amis but Combeferre. He volunteered to drive so no one would get suspicious that he didn’t want to drink. He also didn’t want to explain why he didn’t want to drink; namely, that he was moody and worried he would do something he’d regret if he did. 

This left him with virtually nothing to do come Friday night except stand around in some club downtown nursing a sprite and watching his friends galavant drunkenly through the darkness. Enjolras, who wasn’t fond of clubs even when he was drunk, stood resolutely next to him, which would have been to his advantage if he hadn’t been preoccupied with inelegantly watching Grantaire talk to the bartender. 

Some of their friends made a small effort to get them onto the dance floor, but they all eventually became distracted by a new song coming on and wandered off after a minute or two of talking. Combeferre and Enjolras roamed around the room, avoiding the conspicuity of staying in one place, and chatted with Joly and Eponine who also weren’t the type to foray into the mass of people.

It was Jehan who finally managed to detach Enjolras from the outskirts of the room and lure him onto the dance floor, and Combeferre watched them dance with heightened amusement until Courfeyrac materialized by his side.

He was wearing sparkly beads from New Years Eve around his neck and had a pair of large plastic sunglasses declaring ‘ _Happy Birthday!_ ’ perched on the top of his head. His cheeks were flushed from dancing and the heat of bodies, and hair a little rumpled. Combeferre’s hand twitched to touch, and he took a large sip of sprite for something to do.

Courfeyrac, though, took him by the forearm. “Why don’t you come dance?” His voice was too loud for the corner they stood in, far removed from the speakers. “You normally dance.”

“Sorry, I just don’t feel very good. Probably catching a cold.”

Courf looked at him a little sadly and let go of his arm. “Should I ask the dj to play the Bones theme song?” he asked. 

Combeferre cracked a smile. 

“There you go,” Courf broke into a cheesy grin and poked his cheek. “That’s what I want to see.”

“Go have fun. Don’t worry about me,” Combeferre said. 

“Okay, I’ll see you later, Ferrebear.” Courf winked, then he turned back to the crowd and approached some girls Combeferre didn’t recognize. He watched, a little guilty that he wasn’t being the best friend he should be on Courf’s birthday, but decided that it was ultimately the best thing to do.

Combeferre took that as a cue to venture in the direction of Grantaire and Bahorel, who he spotted leaning against the bar. 

They greeted him as he approached, and Combeferre stood awkwardly and twisted the straw around in his sprite as they continued to talk about an upcoming boxing match. He was barely listening when Bahorel interrupted himself, chuckling, “looks like Courfeyrac is being successful over there.”

Combeferre’s insides tensed and he snapped his eyes in the direction of the crowd. At the edge of the dance floor Courfeyrac stood with some pretty brunette, party garb abandoned, leaning in close and touching her hair. 

The strobe lights above pounded Combeferre’s head and chest with each beat, dousing the club in accusatory light and exposing the dirty, invisible depths of the room. The light was so white that Combeferre could make out the lock of her hair hooked around his finger. Knowing Courfeyrac, he would curve his fingers into the belt loops of her jeans next. 

Time moved slower than normal and then suddenly very quickly. And like a wave crashing in on the high tide, something sour and petulant overcame Combeferre, converging on an undeniable truth that suddenly became very clear; he was painfully, irrevocably jealous.

“Bummer, man.”

The voice distracted him from an emotional meltdown.“Huh?”

Grantaire stood solitary next to him. Apparently Bahorel had wandered away while Combeferre was distracted.

He tipped his head in the direction of Courf and the girl. “You’re upset.”

Combeferre felt himself growing defensive. “No, I’m just tired. What are you drinking?”

“Cheap whiskey,” he answered flatly. 

“Great.” Combeferre leaned over the bar and gestured to the bartender for the same. “One couldn’t hurt,” he said to no one, maybe himself.

“Do you wanna talk about it?” Grantaire asked. 

“Not particularly,” Combeferre said stiffly, giving his credit card to the bartender.

“You’re going to have to at some point. Not with me, I mean.” 

Combeferre laughed humorlessly. “Says you.” 

Grantaire rolled his eyes. “You know it’s different.”

His drink finally arrived and he took a large sip. He exhaled. “Yeah.”

They drank without speaking for a couple of minutes, leaning against the bar and willfully ignoring the chaos of students drunkenly dancing to badly remixed versions of top-40 songs. Combeferre had to force himself to not look toward the dance floor. It would be too much. But images of what could be happening played over and over again in his mind. He felt sick, and his brain was overloaded with thoughts and questions, so many he couldn’t pin down a singular thing to focus on except _Why?_ and _Fuck._

When he finally gave in and risked a glance in their direction, Courf and the girl had already disappeared into the crowd or worse yet, some secluded place, and Combeferre had to bat down some nasty hybrid of sickness and frustration bubbling inside him.

“I don’t think you’re qualified to regret rejecting him now.”

Combeferre frowned. He shouldn’t be surprised that Grantaire was being stubborn, but for once he understood how Enjolras always felt. “How do you know about that?”

“Um, I was there? Besides, we all know about it.”

“Why? When would that ever come up in conversation?”

Grantaire hesitated. “Er, like when someone new joined the group and would be all like ‘what’s their deal’?”

“What’s...our deal?” Combeferre was really starting to hate that phrase. Maybe none of this would have happened if he actually had a deal in the first place. 

“It was pretty clear there was something going on, even from the outside. People asked if you guys were gonna date or something.” Combeferre meditates on the notion for a moment. Something about the thought of his friends talking about them that way made him miserable. 

Grantaire interrupted his thoughts. “And like, you can’t pretend it didn’t take him a little while to get over it.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be helping?”

“I’d like to think that I am in a roundabout way,” he said, looking smug. “But back to my original thought. You can’t beat yourself up about this and you also can’t blame him for moving on.”

That statement simultaneously confirmed his greatest hope and worst fear. It would be ridiculous to blame himself, dwell on the past, or even regret what he did, but Courf was over it and everyone could tell. 

He thought of him and the girl, probably pressed together wherever they were. Combeferre could even tell he was over it. 

“I would never blame him,” he said. 

“I know.”

Grantaire left the bar an hour later. Combeferre couldn’t condemn him for it, the night was dragging on and Combeferre knew he wasn’t being very fun anyway. 

After he finished the singular alcoholic drink he made small talk with a few friends who were still at the bar and some acquaintances from campus, miraculously managing to keep up pleasantries while his mind spiraled madly in all directions. 

The compulsion to keep a watchful eye on Courfeyrac, who reappeared and was thankfully not making out with the girl in the alley behind the building, wore at him. It was a tad obsessive and he tried to fight the need, but Combeferre watched on as Courfeyrac bounced amicably between groups of friends and engaged in a heated dance off with Muchietta. He felt a little pathetic while he did it, though. 

Around 1 am, Courfeyrac approached him while he was talking to Joly. He was steady on his feet, but clearly coming down from a drunken peak and noticeably sleepy. “Getting tired?” Combeferre asked. 

“Yeah,” he yawned. “When I was younger I had more stamina than this.” 

“I’ll go get you some water and we can head out.”

They stuck around a little while longer, Courf finishing his water while Bossuet and Muchietta danced lazily on the half-empty dance floor. It was Combeferre’s job to be their designated driver, and when he asked Joly if he could round up his boyfriend and girlfriend, he said, “I think we’ll just get an uber, Boss probably wants to go through the Taco Bell drive through anyway.” Which left Combeferre and Courfeyrac j-walking together through the empty city streets toward his car. 

Courf was chattering on about the events of the night that he had missed, and Combeferre tried to listen, but his mind was wandering in a dangerous direction at the thought of being locked in a dark vehicle with him. 

Combeferre ultimately decided to roll the windows down, hoping the cool september breeze in his hair would soothe his anxiety, but in the car he could feel Courf staring at him as he laid his hand on the back of the opposite headrest, backing onto the street.

“Are you feeling better now?”

“What?”

“You said you were feeling sick earlier and that’s why you wouldn’t dance,” Courf said carefully. 

_Shit._ “Oh. Yeah. I’m feeling a little better.”

A long pause. “That’s good.”

The vision of the dark tarmac bathed in headlights melded with the sound of the breeze filtering through the windows, running together mundanely. And yet, the situation at hand was far from it. 

It was ridiculous, really, that he was in the car with his friend, a scenario they’d been in probably hundreds of times, and he couldn't think of anything more to say. Ridiculous that his brain was cycling wickedly through exhaustion, anxiety, and desire. Ridiculous that after several years of friendship he was wondering if he was capable of talking about his feelings, of all things. 

Neither of them said anything for a while and Combeferre wasn’t sure whether that was a blessing or curse. It allowed him too much time to think about whether Courf saw the thickness in the air, could hear the unspoken words, could feel the nervousness in his stomach through the stillness. 

As they approached campus, Combeferre mustered some nerve and asked softly, “Did you have a good day?”

Courf smiled as if it was already lost, a fond memory from long before. “Yeah. It was nice just to be with everyone, even if I didn’t get a cake,” he chuckled.

Combeferre nearly pounded on the breaks right then. Almost instantly, his decision was made. 

He stopped promptly at the stop sign and proceeded to launch them into an ungraceful U-turn. 

Courf sat up a little straighter. “Uhh, I’m not sure if it counts as kidnapping if I’d willingly go wherever you’re taking me but, like, am I being kidnapped?”

“I just realized I need to run an errand.”

“At 1:30 am?” 

“24-hour grocery,” Combeferre explained. 

Courf stayed in the car while Combeferre ran inside, making a beeline for the back of the store. He scoured the aisles urgently until he found what he needed and was back in the parking lot within 5 minutes. 

He set the grocery bag in question carefully in the back seat, and slid in behind the steering wheel. Courfeyrac, miraculously, hadn’t fallen asleep while he was inside and was scrolling through instagram, looking through birthday posts, probably. 

“That was quick,” he smirked. 

“It couldn’t wait.”

They arrived at Courf’s apartment soon after and instead of dropping him off, Combeferre got out of the car. Courfeyrac shot him a knowing smile but didn’t say anything as Combeferre followed him upstairs with the grocery bag. 

Clearly, Courfeyrac knew what he had in store and was pretending not to, politely holding in his amusement. Combeferre relished the fact that it must be killing him. 

“Hmmm, I wonder what that is? A jar of beets? Maybe a wheel of Brie?”

“I think you’re vastly overestimating the merits of their cheese selection,” Combeferre commented. 

In the apartment he headed straight for the kitchen while Courf locked the door. “Is Marius here?” Combeferre asked.

“He went home with Cosette.” Courfeyrac said, appearing in the kitchen and happily eying the bag on the table as Combeferre got plates and forks from cabinets he memorized ages before. 

“You didn’t have to do this,” he said. 

Combeferre shrugged. “It’s kind of unfortunate that you don’t have a say in the matter, then.” 

Courfeyrac laughed and sat down at the table as Combferre took out the cake. “It’s carrot, by the way. They were all out of the others and they don’t bake new stuff until the morning.”

Courfeyrac rested his face on one hand and beamed at it. “No, I love it. I tried to steal Enjolras’ carrot cake the first time I met you guys.”

Combeferre remembered, but he hadn’t said anything in case Courf didn’t.

“Okay,” Combeferre stuck one of the candles he bought into the frosting and took the lighter out of the drawer. “Do you want me to sing to you?”

Courfeyrac chuckled. “I would, but I’m not feeling that evil tonight, especially after you got me this.”

“Then by all means.” Combeferre gestured to the lit cake and shoved his hands in his pockets. 

Courfeyrac thought for a second, scrunching his nose in his trademark fashion. Combeferre bit back a smile and ignored the flip in his stomach. Then Courf finally blew out the candle in one big puff of breath. 

They both ate too much cake but the sugary frosting woke them up a little bit, triggering Courfeyrac’s playful giddiness. “So are you gonna ask me what I wished for?”

“Isn’t that the exact opposite of what I’m supposed to do?” 

“I’m not sure who’s in charge of handing out punishments for breaking superstitious rules but I don’t think they’ll hear if I whisper it,” Courfeyrac said, inching forward. 

“Oh?” Combeferre managed to stammer as Courf came in close to his face. His wide eyes held an adorable glint of mischief but Combeferre couldn’t keep his own off Courf’s lips which had a small dab of frosting sitting on the corner of them, ready to be kissed away. Combeferre’s skin buzzed with heat and he became a little lightheaded, but a deep, hungry excitement overcame it. 

Courfeyrac put his mouth next to his ear and whispered, “I wished for us to have a perfect year next year.” But then he pulled away, and all the electricity surging through Combeferre got cut off at the source. Dull reality set in. 

Combeferre felt something similar to pain building in his chest, but he forced the feeling down as he produced a weak smile. “I’m sure we will.”

They cleaned up the kitchen after that, and Combeferre shuffled awkwardly around the kitchen, purposely avoiding getting too close to Courfeyrac as they navigated around each other. 

One thought plagued his mind, and Combeferre went back and forth on the matter several times as he washed the silverware in the sink. Should he confess? It could be the perfect time. It was late, they were alone, and they could sort things out between them. Make rules, establish boundaries, anything that would make this newfound adoration easier on Combeferre without having to lose his best friend.

He thought they could make it through this, they had before, after all. One fear nagged at him, though: the fact that Courfeyrac never felt as strongly as Combeferre now felt. They had only just met each other when he asked Combeferre out and misconstrued their connection as romance. 

Surely now that they knew each other better, knew all each other’s flaws and neuroses, whatever Combeferre felt was different. Deeper. Maybe even love. 

He watched as Courf did a small jump to reach the top shelf of the cabinet. 

Not maybe. 

In the weeks following the incident, Courfeyrac began a long parade of conquests and one-night stands that Combeferre now looked back on with jealousy. He didn’t agree with what Grantaire said earlier about it taking a while for Courf to get over it. During the first two months on campus Courfeyrac went without a single fling, and afterward he essentially became the group Casonova, like he forgot about his feelings for Combeferre entirely. That didn’t sound like anything more than passing interest to him. 

To say that his feelings at that moment were deeper than the momentary attraction Courfeyrac experienced a year and half before was an understatement, and coming to terms with the fact that it was just a tiny blip that almost shocked their relationship out of commission was terrifying. What Combeferre knew he had to say would be much harder to deal with. 

He was still wrestling with these thoughts when it came time to go home. He must’ve stood at Courfeyrac’s door for five minutes, fiddling with keys and thinking of one reason after another not to leave, just to buy one more second of time.

In the end, when he looked Courfeyrac deep in the eyes, at his face half-lit from the light in the kitchen, the same way it was in the courtyard on the night they met after eating carrot cake in the dining room, Combeferre decided it was not the right time to admit his feelings. Courfeyrac was so happy, and dropping a bomb on him on his birthday at that hour would just be cruel. 

_Soon_ , he decided, as he finally opened the front door and said softly to Courfeyrac through the emptiness “Goodnight.”

**~~~**

Courfeyrac stared as Combeferre stood nervously at the door of his apartment. He looked _troubled,_ which was totally cute but also bad. 

He wondered if in that fleeting moment, when he leaned close to Ferre’s ear, need pulling him like a magnet, if he felt something too. 

Weeks ago, Courfeyrac and Marius, that he was maybe not crazy. And small, innocuous things kept adding up. Combeferre’s odd behavior. The way he kept catching his friend’s eyes on him in a way that made him hurt with longing. Bones, of all fucking things. 

He watched as Combeferre shifted awkwardly, keys clanging in his hands. It said something, something quiet and invisible that you could only see in darkness. In silences. 

But there was enough in that one look, in that endearing distress, enough to make him hopeful. 

And as he paced his living room, Courf was able to think a little more clearly. _I think he knows,_ he decided, _and_ _I can’t be the one to act first._

_**~~~** _

Combeferre became comfortable wallowing in his feelings during the week following Courfeyrac’s birthday and thus gave into a practice that was relatively uncommon for him: procrastination. He believed that there was almost nothing a human being couldn’t adapt to, and being in love with your best friend wasn’t an exception, so postponing having the conversation became easy to justify to himself. 

__

_He has a test tomorrow. You can’t tell him right before the Les Amis Meeting. We’re both too tired for this._

__

And so on. 

__

In this time, he realized that adapting was so effortless because his feelings for Courfeyrac were essentially unchanged. Experiences he used to attribute to platonic attachment- when his heart flipped, when his limbs warmed, or when he became momentarily overcome with fondness-were clearly tinged with something more intense, something twisted with affection and riddled with dopamine. 

__

This meant, though, that he’d been in love for a long time and never noticed it. (Which certainly made him question his emotional intelligence, but that wasn’t really important.) 

__

The largest marked difference was that he didn’t _physically_ feel this way until very recently. The desire to- _you know_ -hit him like a bus and said bus began backing up over his poor, helpless body nearly every time he was within a two foot radius of Courfeyrac. 

__

Each time they studied together in the apartment, side by side on the sofa, Combeferre found himself slipping deeper and deeper into inappropriate trains of thought. Imagining sinking deep into the couch, limbs tangled, relishing the scratch of the fabric on the back of his neck, feeling the weight of hands creeping over his stomach and warm breath on his belt buckle. And they often strayed farther than that.

__

It was inconvenient to say the least. 

__

On a Wednesday after a meeting, Courfeyrac pouted enough to convince him to watch another musical-movie which devolved into Combeferre staring blankly ahead while his mind involuntarily pictured that same pouting mouth and eyes darkening above him, deadly insistent of what they wanted while legs curled around his hips. 

He couldn’t help but feel guilty at times like those about the fact that it was lust and jealousy, two ugly, crude impulses, that made him recognize his feelings. Combeferre knew it didn’t taint their relationship and that he couldn’t blame himself for the fact that jealousy and desire were potent, discernible emotions, but he felt like he was taking advantage of Courfeyrac during their quality time together. And while Combeferre did consider avoiding situations where they were alone together, the possibility of enduring that long-term upended the foundation of their friendship, and was also just incredibly depressing. 

__

In the end, he knew he had to act soon or be cursed with this life forever but it wasn’t enough to spring him into action. 

__

He did get close while Marius and Cosette were out one night, when Courfeyrac requested some help for baking. He wanted Combeferre to teach him how to make mousse cake for Marius, and even though Combeferre thought Courfeyrac already knew how, he didn’t question it. 

__

“Like this?”

__

“No,” he held Courf’s hands on top of the spatula. They were warm and soft today. Combeferre wondered vaguely if he got new moisturizer. 

__

He moved the utensil over Courfeyrac’s hands, forcing the batter to gently fall on top of the new ingredients. “Like this,” he said, close to Courfeyrac’s ear. 

__

So maybe things were getting worse. He could deal with it. 

__

Courfeyrac leaned back into his chest, perhaps more than he needed to, and Combeferre’s mouth went dry. He stayed put though, relishing the warmth between their bodies and continued speaking into his ear. 

__

“You need to do it gently, because it’s fragile. The reason you fold it is to make sure you add as much air as you can while you mix. To make it rise later.”

__

Courfeyrac nodded, and the gesture made his hair tickle Combeferre’s chin. He caught a large whiff of it too, and it smelled good, good enough to make Combeferre think about pushing his hands up through it, and raking back down, twining his fingers around the curls. 

__

So maybe he couldn’t deal with it. 

__

“Here, you do it now,” Combeferre said, backing away and breathing a silent sigh of relief. 

__

Courfeyrac folded the ingredients almost perfectly and set the mixing bowl back down. He took a swipe at the batter with his fingers and turned, leaning his back on the counter and sucking the mixture off. 

__

Combeferre gulped. “It’s almost like you didn’t need my help.” 

__

“But I wanted it,” Courfeyrac said evenly, not breaking eye contact. 

__

“Does the Salmonella taste good?” 

__

“Yeah, wanna bite?” Courf stuck his finger back out into the bowl and held it out toward Combeferre’s face. 

__

Combeferre gawked at it for a moment and said “No thanks.”

__

Courf smiled and licked it off. “Suit yourself, Ferrebear.”

__

Combeferre tried desperately to compose himself and picked up his phone. “We need 3 tablespoons of melted butter,” he recited from the recipe. 

__

“Already on it.”

__

Combeferre leaned against the counter and watched as Courfeyrac picked out a bowl and began cutting the butter. Flour was caught in his hair. 

__

“Your hair has a little something in it,” he said.

__

Courf poked at his head and ruffled it up. “Oh.” He completely missed. “Did I get it?”

__

“No, come here.”

__

Courfeyrac set the butter in the microwave for twenty seconds and approached Combeferre, leaning in close to his face. Combeferre reached up and brushed the flour out, but he held the lock of hair too long, rubbing it between his fingers. 

__

Courf’s breath caught in his throat. Combeferre stared. He couldn’t pull his eyes away.

__

Courfeyrac’s gaze was fixed on his, darkening similarly to Combeferre’s fantasies. Their faces drifted closer, and somehow Combeferre’s hand moved from Courfeyrac’s hair to cradle the side of his face. Courfeyrac bit his lip and Combeferre was transfixed by the motion, but as they inched closer his vision went out of focus. What Combeferre couldn’t see he could feel, warm breath, soft skin and-

__

_BZZZZZ_ The microwave rang aggressively. Combeferre blinked, backing away quickly. Courfeyrac made his face carefully blank. 

__

_Bzzzz. Bzzzz. Bzzzz._ It reminded them insistently. All the tension was broken between them and Comeferre felt his cheeks warm, hope falling pathetically at his feet. 

__

Thankfully, Courf was already turned away and muttering something along the lines of “...loud fucking machine...” as he pulled the door open and set the bowl on the counter. 

__

“I’m going to go to the bathroom,” Combeferre said hurriedly. “I can leave my phone if you need the recipe-”

__

“No it’s fine,” Courfeyrac responded moodily, already mixing the butter into the bowl and not looking at him.

__

“Okay.” Combeferre fled the room. 

__

In the bathroom he couldn’t bear to look at his face. He faced the wall and stared miserably at it. Courfeyrac had hung one of Marius’ academic awards on the wall so it was at eye-level if you sat on the toilet. Combeferre looked down, reread the familiar words and hated himself. Hated the hope that built inside him, hated the fact that he felt _relieved_ for not having to face his fears, hated that he had to hide in the bathroom like a teenager at a high school party who was afraid to try the alcohol.

__

Combeferre stood there, replaying the events in his mind, for as long as was politely possible before exiting the bathroom and calling into the kitchen, “Need any help in there?”

__

There was a large clatter of pans followed by several cusses. “No,” Courfeyrac shouted back. Combeferre grappled with the thought of helping anyway, but he settled on the couch, weighing himself down with heavy textbooks so he wouldn’t scurry out the door like a spooked animal. 

__

Combeferre knew something important had just happened. He was still processing, reliving every second, but something told him it was much simpler than he was making it out to be. They were going to kiss, and both parties were willing. But now...Courfeyrac was mad at him? 

__

Combeferre was disappointed and relieved and exhausted all at the same time, and when Courfeyrac appeared in the living room ten minutes later his heart started racing. 

__

“Cake is in the oven,” Courfeyrac announced. “Guess I didn’t need your help that much after all, like you said.” 

__

Feeling brave, Combeferre asked, “Do you want to sit?” 

__

Courfeyrac stared down at the empty space beside him. “Yeah,” he said, but Combeferre detected an ounce of hesitation in his voice.

__

Courfeyrac collapsed at his side, Combeferre fidgeted. “So,” he began. 

__

Courfeyrac looked at him expectantly.

__

At the time, Combeferre didn’t feel the tension in the air. He didn’t see the hope on his friend’s face. He forgot about the disappointment he left in the kitchen and the misery hanging in the bathroom. All he felt was fear penetrating his deepest desires and wringing them out cruelly in his mind. If he said what he wanted to say, if Courfeyrac heard what he wanted to hear, it would tip them over the edge of something dangerous, send them skidding out of control, barrelling into nowhere. 

__

There wasn’t a way to do it safely, so maybe they wouldn’t. 

“I think we should figure something out for next year, boundaries.” Combeferre heard himself say.

__

There was a beat of silence and then “Really? That’s it?” Courfeyrac’s voice was flat. 

__

Combeferre didn’t look at him. “It’s a bad idea. You know it’s a bad idea.”

__

“Don’t tell me what I do and don’t know,” he snapped.

__

“I-”

__

Courfeyrac stood up and rubbed his eyes. His mouth was quivering. “Just go home. We’ll deal with this later.” He turned his back and left the room without another word.

__

Combeferre scrambled, sickness collecting in his gut, as he gathered his things. Thankfully, he managed to leave within two minutes, but in that time he didn’t hear a sound echo through the rest of the apartment, like Courfeyrac wasn’t even there. 

__

It was as soon as the cool evening breeze hit his face several steps from the apartment that he realized he made a mistake. Combeferre ran back and desperately hit the buzzer outside the apartment several times, begging to be let back up. His phone calls didn’t go through. The door didn’t unlock.

**~~~**

After Combeferre left his apartment Courfeyrac swore ungratefully at the microwave and unplugged it as punishment.

__

Maybe he believed for a second that it would work. That they’d make out, eat some cake, and live happily ever after. But it didn’t, and he was stupid to think it would. And if he seethed and maybe cried a little bit as he sat on the kitchen floor, ignoring buzzes from the door and ringing from his cell phone, then that was his prerogative. 

**~~~**

Combeferre somehow ended up at his apartment several minutes later. He didn’t remember getting there, didn’t remember climbing the stairs or unlocking the door, and when he entered he found Enjolras and Grantaire in the living room but didn’t think anything of it. 

__

His eyes were glued to his phone as he drafted and deleted every pleading message to Courfeyrac that he couldn’t muster the courage to send. 

__

He dropped his bag with an ungraceful _thunk_ and sagged onto the kitchen chair, simply because he didn’t think he could make it all the way to his room.

__

“What’s wrong?” Enjolras asked. 

__

Combeferre didn’t look at him. He was still staring at his phone, willing it to make a sound. “I messed up.”

__

This got Grantaire’s attention. “Oh shit,” he interjected, “did you just come from Courfeyrac’s?” 

__

“Courfeyrac?” Enjolras asked, glancing back at him “What would Courfeyrac have to do with-? Oh.”

__

“Oh.” Combeferre agreed.

__

“What happened?”

__

Combeferre hesitated for a second, but began rambling. “We were standing in the kitchen baking and I almost kissed him. Or maybe _we_ almost kissed? I’m not sure. The microwave went off,” he explained. 

__

No missed calls. No text messages. 

__

“You got cockblocked by a microwave?” Grantaire asked, trying to conceal his amusement. 

__

Combeferre sighed and finally looked up at them, recounting the rest of the story. He told them about his fears, how much he regretted them the second he went outside, how Courfeyrac was mad at him, how he wouldn’t pick up. 

__

Enjolras and Grantaire were an unlikely pair of listeners, but still obliging, frowning at the right times and patting him on the shoulder appropriately. It was a first for all of them. Combeferre didn’t have crises like this. He didn’t usually need to seek out advice from his friends, he dealt with problems with the other people involved. The only persisting exception to any of these rules was, of course, Courfeyrac, and because the world insisted on providing its sense of humor when people wanted it least, Combeferre thought about this fact for ten whole minutes.

__

Even though Enjolras and Grantaire protested, Combeferre retired to his room to try to get some work done. He left his phone in the living room so as to not have a mental breakdown, and Enjolras went to make him some tea, as he always did in difficult situations. Grantaire followed him to his room, stopping short to lean on the door frame.

__

Combeferre, who sat slumped at his desk, looked up at him. “Going to help in a roundabout way again?” 

__

Grantaire cracked a smile. “It’s part of my brand now,” he joked. “And yeah, I just-before Enjolras comes back, I wanted to say that being afraid it isn’t going to work out feels like a bit of a cop-out to me.” 

__

Combeferre frowned at him.

__

“I mean, if I got an opportunity like you did. I’d definitely have the same fear, Enjolras and I fight all the time. We both say stupid shit we don’t mean, we don’t know what each other wants, much less needs. But you and Courfeyrac are never like that. You know each other, you grow together. I have more faith in you guys than I do pretty much anyone else, and if you two can’t make it then I have serious doubts about everyone else on this earth,” he hit the doorframe softly with his fist, “so yeah, think about that, I guess.”

__

Combeferre did think about that. In bed that night he stared at his ceiling that night for tradtion’s sake, and realized that all the bullshit about unrequited love and fear that they’d fall apart was really just a stand-in for something egoistical. He didn’t doubt their love for each other, for their ability to work through problems and stick together. He had no faith in himself, or in his ability to love and be loved the way he wanted to. 

__

Which, he realized, _was_ a self-fulfilling prophecy. But the fact that he lay there knowing Courfeyrac had wanted him and that he wanted back was enough to suggest that maybe his faithlessness in himself had already lost out. 

__

He didn’t fall asleep easily that night for obvious reasons, but once unconscious he rested easier than he had in months. 

__

The next morning, Combeferre realized he left his phone to die in the living room. He bolted upright and retrieved it, making enough noise that it woke Enjolras up. 

__

It took a couple minutes to turn on after it began charging, and once it was, a couple notifications came through. One text from his mom and a few from Joly, several news notifications, and not much else. 

__

He tapped to his messages and his fingers hovered the screen for a moment. When he finally texted Courfeyrac it was short and direct:

> _Come over tonight? Please._

__

To Combeferre’s relief, the message went through. Courfeyrac responded a few minutes later:

> _Sure. At 7?_

__

Combeferre spent the whole day trying to think of the right thing to say and the perfect way to word it, so nothing was lost in translation. But when Courf stepped through the door shortly after Enjolras (purposefully) left for the library, his brain short-circuited and the words were gone. 

__

“Hey,” Combeferre greeted. Courfeyrac stood in the door awkwardly. His expression gave nothing away, a noticeable difference from the usual exuberance of his greetings. Normally, he’d barge in and instantly begin talking about something, Combeferre would smile and listen and offer his two-sense. They’d drift to the couch, lounge and talk, ignoring responsibilities. 

__

This was much different. 

__

“Hey.”

__

Combeferre shut the door and they stood on the edge of the room. He felt like they were more alone right then than they’d been in ages. It set him on edge, but he pushed through the anxiety, grasping for something familiar to hold on to. 

__

“You can sit down if you want,” Combeferre said, gesturing toward the living room.

__

“Are you not?” Courfeyrac asked, sitting down on his designated side, feet planted to the floor. He never sat like that, he usually laid on his back or side, sprawled out so their limbs overlapped. 

__

“I’d prefer to stand.”

__

They looked at each other for a moment, except Courfeyrac was looking everywhere else too, at his feet, the walls, Combeferre’s forehead.

__

That was enough.

__

“I just-“

__

“You-“

__

They both began talking at the same time and stopped short. 

__

“You go.” Combeferre offered with a half-smile. 

__

Courf nodded, glanced down nervously, then back up at Combeferre. “I just wanted to say that I’m sorry for dismissing you so quickly yesterday. I was mad and it’s not my place to make you feel bad for needing space and not-” his voice broke off and he sighed.

__

“I should also say sorry, for more than you.” Combeferre filled the silence urgently. 

__

Courfeyrac watched him silently. Combeferre began pacing under his gaze.

__

“What I did the other day was stupid and cowardly and not representative of how I felt. I know we’ve never properly talked about this so please correct me if I am wrong but,” he stopped walking and glanced at his friend for confirmation. “I am under the impression that we both have more than platonic feelings for one another.”

__

“That impression is correct,” Courfeyrac supplied, eyebrows raised. 

__

Combeferre nodded vigorously, filing the information away and began pacing again. “When I left the other day, I realized right away that I’ve been making so many excuses for myself. I’ve been telling myself since your birthday-or probably even weeks before that, when I came home in August, that I didn’t need to talk about how I felt because you didn’t feel the same way anymore.”

__

“That’s-”

__

“Bullshit, and I know that now.” Combeferre interrupted. He looked at Courfeyrac. “I was so afraid of taking a chance on us and projecting that fear onto other things. I let it control me because I was afraid of making a choice,” he said. Courf watched him sadly. “And part of the issue was, I had basically already made my choice and was pretending that I hadn’t. So I can’t blame you for thinking that we needed to talk about it. We need to always be able to talk to each other,” he said breathlessly. 

__

“I understand. We both messed up a little bit,” Courfeyrac laughed. He had relaxed slightly, leaning against the armrest and smiling mournfully to himself. 

__

“And you need to know that even then I never considered that we wouldn’t still be best friends and live together,” Combeferre said. “It’s not an option, and I know you know that because you came over here today, so yeah,” he finished and all the words hung heavily in the air.

__

The silence stretched longer than Combeferre anticipated. He’d laid everything out in the open, and even though he rambled and paced, he expected Courfeyrac to say more, to do more than look at his hand and avoid eye contact like it would burn. 

__

Finally, he spoke. “So when you said that you’ve already made a decision, um, what do you mean by that?” Courfeyrac asked lightly.

__

Combeferre froze. He thought back to what he said. “I wasn’t very clear, was I?” He chuckled ruefully. “I spent all day thinking about this and I didn’t say one coherent thought. I’m usually more articulate than this,” he gave a self-mocking sigh.

__

“It was beautifully worded, Ferre,” Courfeyrac assured, “I just-”

__

”I mean-” 

__

They began talking at the same time again. 

__

“You go,” Courfeyrac said.

In a split-second Combeferre realized what he needed to do, what he had inadvertently been avoiding the whole time. It wasn’t what he planned, it was hasty and presumptuous, but it was the most honest action he could take. To look Courfeyrac dead in the eyes and say what he felt because that was what they both deserved. 

__

He sighed with finality. “Falling in love with you was not a choice-or maybe it was a lot of small choices that I made a long time ago, but letting you feel the same way about me and letting myself believe that we’ll always choose each other is something that I know we can do-” he faltered. The confession had tumbled out of his mouth and Courf was staring at him with wide eyes. The reality of his words set in. “I-oh god, how much does _‘more than platonic’_ mean to you because I just totally put words into your mouth there in an attempt to have a romantic monologue and-”

__

“I feel the same way too,” Courfeyrac blurted, standing up abruptly, “I mean, I’m in love with you too.” 

__

They stood three paces apart. 

__

“Oh, good. That is good. That is-good,” Combeferre breathed, barely registering what just happened. “Good,” he said, one last time before Courfeyrac lunged, sweeping him into a large, swinging hug. Combeferre wrapped his arms around him and picked him gently off the ground. For a moment, the embrace was all Combeferre could ever want, and the silence brimmed with joy, understanding. 

__

They breathed in harmony, holding tightly to one another until Combeferre began to itch for more. 

__

Courfeyrac must have been thinking the same thing, because he broke the silence. “You never finished your romantic monologue,” he whispered.

__

“Oh,” Combeferre smiled sheepishly. Courf’s face neared his. “Uh, I chose to …” Courfeyrac kissed Combeferre’s cheek slowly, then under his chin, “to...” another kiss next to his ear. Swiftly losing his train of thought, Combeferre breathed, _“uh,”_ and Courfeyrac kissed slowly down his neck. 

__

“Tell me,” he purred between kisses.Combeferre felt like he was melting. One kiss at his temple, one at the corner of his lips. 

__

If it was any other statement, he probably wouldn’t have managed, but Combeferre’s every nerve rang out _youyouyou,_ as Courfeyrac’s lips ran irresistibly over his skin. “I chose you,” fell off his lips easily as they met Courfeyrac’s, muffling at the end.

__

Their first real kiss was tentative, shy even, but the second and third that quickly followed were increasingly stronger with Courfeyrac pressing into him closely and angling his jaw to make each kiss deeper. Combeferre felt electrified and dumb, euphoric, and his senses kicked in. His hands grasped Courfeyrac's face, urging longer, heavier, kisses that left them both gasping in between. 

__

They stumbled onto the same couch where they talked and cuddled, studied and lounged, fought, and now kissed, and explored one another with their mouths and their hands, but they soon learned the sofa was too small for them in that position. Their kisses were messy and they figured out which ways they best fit together, but eventually their trailing mouths eventually became lazy and less urgent, opting to giggle and chide at one another softly between kisses.

__

“I thought you were smaller than this,” Combeferre mumbled into the skin behind Courfeyrac’s ear. 

__

“I am small, you’re just a giant and taking up all the space,” Courfeyrac argued. His head was resting back on the armrest, eyes closed as he was wedged awkwardly between the couch and Combeferre.

__

“You never complained about that until I ended up on top of you,” Combeferre mused. “Maybe I’ll just never pin you to anything again…”

__

“Nooo,” Courfeyrac whined into his hair. “I take it back. You’re not giant, you’re...Big Bird sized.”

__

Combeferre propped his head up to look him in the eye. “Oh? And that’s supposed to make me feel better?” he questioned. 

__

“There are worse things to be than an eight-foot tall bird puppet,” Courfeyrac said seriously.

_**  
  
** _

Combeferre laughed collapsed his head back into the crook of his neck. “Courf, Courf, Courf,” he sighed and kissed his collarbone.

__

“Ferre, Ferre, Ferre,” Courfeyrac echoed. 

__

Combeferre smiled into his skin and inhaled. “You smell good. Why do you always smell good?”

__

“Marius and I use the same shampoo.”

__

Combeferre stiffened. “You’re kidding.”

__

“Yeah I am, but can you imagine?”

__

“I’d have to recruit Cosette for an intense conversation about the quality of whatever 3 in 1 he uses.”

__

Courfeyrac giggled. “Oh my god,” 

__

“Speaking of showers,” Combeferre said, sitting up. “I need one.”

__

“No,” Courfeyrac protested, “I need you more.”

__

“Aw, that’s sweet.” Combeferre smiled and kissed him softly on the lips. “Try for a better excuse next time.” 

__

Courfeyrac glared. “Fine, but I get to set the temperature in your room then.”

__

“I wouldn’t expect anything less.” Combeferre rolled his eyes, and went to the bathroom. 

__

With some distance between them, Combeferre washed his hair and thought about the fact that they should probably take things slow. Yes, they just admitted that they are in love with each other, but he meant _slow_ in a different way. It would probably be practical to delay the physical components of their relationship until they were mutually comfortable with what they were ready to share. And they’d done a good job of that so far, he reasoned, by not, you know, jumping each other on the couch. 

  
After his shower Combeferre walked into his room expecting Courfeyrac to already be sleeping. Instead, he sat perched near the edge of the bed in the yellow lamplight glancing down at his phone. When Combeferre entered he his eyes shot up, texts long forgotten. 

“You didn’t fall asleep on me,” Combeferre smiled. He tried moving forward, but Courf made a small noise in objection. “No, stay put. I need to stare at you some more.” 

Combeferre frowned and looked down at himself. He was wearing some really old sweatpants that he didn’t find particularly flattering and his hair was all wet and slicked to his face in an odd way. The dazed expression on Courfeyrac’s face suggested otherwise, though, and Combeferre indulged him by leaning against the door jamb. 

“I’m honestly taking this look as a personal attack against me,” Courf said, continuing to stare at him with an excited look in his eyes. 

Combeferre smiled shyly. “You know, I’ll look like this in the morning too. I don’t have class until 10 am so if we wake up at seven, I can stand here for probably two and a half hours if you want.”

“Maybe I’ll want you for something else tomorrow morning,” said lightly. 

At these words, Combeferre lost his sense of control and started toward him. Courf let out an thrilled squeak. 

Stopping an inch of the the edge of the mattress, Courf’s nose lined up with the bottom of Combeferre’s rib cage. Courfeyrac kissed the skin there softly, and desire twisted intensely through Combeferre’s body. He resisted his impulse though, and tilted Courfeyrac’s face upward so they could look each other in the eyes. Courf’s arms slithered around his legs. 

“I don’t know,” Combeferre said, brushing hair from Courfeyrac’s face. “But we have all the time in the world from now on.” He leaned down and gave him a chaste kiss on the lips. 

When he tried to pull away, Courfeyrac made a disgruntled noise and held Combeferre's legs tighter. 

“Stay here,” he pouted. His hands moved to Combeferre’s waist as his nose edged his rib cage. “You’re not on top of me right now, which I also take as a personal attack.” 

Combeferre tipped Courf’s chin upwards, taking in his dark brown eyes and pouting lips. His pupils were blown wide and Combeferre felt himself losing all resolve he gained in the shower.

“I’m so sorry to hear that,” Combeferre sighed and grabbed Courfeyrac’s shoulders a little roughly, pushing him into a lying position. His eyes flashed with excitement as Combeferre began crawling over his body. 

“Is this where you ask how to make it up to me?” Courf looked up at him innocently through his eyelashes. 

Desire built insistently in his gut and his arousal grew uncomfortable. Combeferre leant down so their faces were close. 

Courfeyrac was still feigning innocence, lying beneath Combeferre with wide eyes. His mouth was going dry but he managed to smile wryly, and say “No,” before capturing Courfeyrac’s mouth into a rough kiss. 

Courf made a pleased noise at the contact, and Combeferre bit his lip slowly, urging a low sigh from both of them. They kissed again and again and suddenly they were all over each other, Combeferre’s mouths roaming from lips to neck then collarbones. Courfeyrac’s hands twisted insistently in Combeferre’s hair and slid down to his stomach teasingly slowly, as Combeferre manhandled him further up the bed. They breathed the same air and Combeferre felt his senses collapsing in on just this, just them. 

They kissed deeper than before, dirtier and slightly desperate, and Combeferre couldn’t decipher his own panting breaths from Courfeyrac’s, who clinged to his shoulders and parted his legs slightly. 

A hazy thickness settled in the room, shadows and soft lamplight made every touch feel heavier, more purposeful, and each kiss or ungraceful stroke of tongue dripped painfully with lust. 

Each kiss begged for another, and Combeferre couldn’t stop himself from giving Courfeyrac more and more. Through needy movements and keening noises, Courf’s legs hooked around his hips and Combeferre sighed helplessly. Whenever he moved his mouth correctly or gripped him harder Courfeyrac grasped at the ends of his hair sighed in his ear.

It got to the point where Combeferre couldn’t tell himself anymore that they could take things slow. He didn’t _want_ to take things slow and Courfeyrac, who arched underneath him and breathed _“Ferre”_ when he dug his hips forward into him, did not want to take things slow either.

They were both growing impatient, fumbling desperately with one another, and only communicating through touches because their mouths were constantly pressed together, moving over skin, or exhaling shakily. Combeferre wanted to ask “What do you want?” or “What am I allowed from you?” but he always found a new patch of skin kiss, a new angle of jaw to suck on. 

Courfeyrac’s hot breath in his ear was so distracting that he became more aggressive without really meaning to, pinning him to the mattress with arms and hips. 

He could tell Courfeyrac was pleased, though, by sound of his groans and whispers of _“fuck”_ before Combeferre muffled each with his mouth. His hormone addled brain soared with delight at each sound and pushed them farther until Courf was grasping at the waistband of his sweatpants and Combeferre had the borrowed t-shirt bunched up to Courf’s chest so he could map every inch of warm skin with his palms. 

Combeferre tried to make a note to have a further discussion about communication and consent when they were done acting like a couple of horny teenagers, but for now he knew they were equally enthusiastic about the turn of events, and clearly understood that this encounter was only going to end in one way: both of them sweaty and panting with the relief of release.

Combeferre pulled back slightly so he could see Courfeyrac’s face. “We can- do you want to-?” The question hung in the air and Courf nodded eagerly. 

“Yes.” 

And so the night dissolved into gasps and flushed faces, open-mouthed kisses and embarrassingly fast orgasms, and it was far better than Combeferre had imagined. 

They both awoke at some point in the middle of the night and did some more _stuff_. Combeferre insisted that they turn the light on so he could watch Courfeyrac’s face while his lips moved around him and they sleepily urged each other to completion. They learned that Combeferre had a weird thing for eye contact, and in the early morning while the rays from the sunrise trickled in through the gaps in the blinds, he discovered that Courfeyrac’s preferences laid with dirty talk, which was the least surprising fact he’d ever learned. 

All of this led to him sauntering around the apartment like a sexed-out zombie (which is to say a very happy zombie, mind you) in the morning, getting ready for class while Courfeyrac was still asleep in his bed. 

Enjolras came back from the library sometime between the first and second encounters of the night and Combeferre couldn’t even muster the energy to be embarrassed about the fact that he probably heard them. 

Thankfully, Enjolras was sleepy and silent as they stood beside each other in the kitchen waiting for the coffee to brew. Combeferre was too distracted by thoughts of his-boyfriend? _(Note to self: address boyfriend matter later)_ in his room. 

He headed for class around 9:45, and gave Courf a quick kiss, careful not to wake him up before he left. He drafted a text message to him from his seat before class started, wishing him good morning and asking if he could come over that night. 

When his phone buzzed halfway through lecture, he saw that the response from Courfeyrac was essentially a nonsensical string of sparkly heart emojis. He set his phone back down with a giant goofy smile on his face and agreed serenely that he felt the same way. 

**~~~**

Courfeyrac woke up to a disappointingly empty bed, but he found a sweet text from Ferre waiting on his phone. He used all the heart emojis he could find as a response and then spent an hour lavishing around in the bed that smelled like his new boyfriend (his super hot and smart and nice boyfriend who was also his best friend who was also Ferre), and thinking about the fact that he got, for lack of a better term, laid the night before. 

When he finally exited the room wearing clothes he dug out of his boyfriend’s ( _boyfriend’s!!_ ) dresser, he ran into Enjolras who was reading the campus newspaper at the table. 

Enjolras gave him a grimace (Courfeyrac assumed he was attempting to smile but was bogged down with tiredness and lack of sound-proof walls) as he grabbed an apple from the fridge and headed to his noon class. 

He floated dazedly from building to building, sometimes stopping to think about something other than the events of the previous night. He knew he looked a mess, that his clothes clearly weren’t his, and that basically everyone in his seminar could tell that he was basking in an afterglow, but he didn’t care. He wanted them to know. 

He wanted to scream it from the rooftops, recruit an army of backup dancers and perform a serenade for his boyfriend _(boyfriend!!!)_ for the whole world to see. 

He started with his sister, though, and figured that he had all the time in the universe to tell everyone else. 

**~~~**

After his last class of the day ended, Combeferre headed to the library. He was restless, though, and his mind kept wandering to Courfeyrac was probably doing at that moment. Combeferre gave in a wildly unproductive hour later and called him from outside the library. 

“Hey.” When Courf picked up, Combeferre could hear the smile on his face. 

“Hi,” he grinned shyly into the phone.

“What’s up?” 

“I was wondering if you wanted me to pick up pizza before I came over? Also, it’s been a couple years since we’ve watched Fiddler On the Roof and I have some free time tonight, so I thought I’d bring that.”

“Oh my god, absolutely. And I’m feeling pepperoni today, if you don’t mind.” 

“Will do, and uh, I missed you,” he blushed. 

There was a slight pause. “I missed you too,” Courf said, and Combeferre could swear he heard distant giggling on the other end of the line. The thought of their friends knowing made him smile.

“See you soon, love you.”

“Love you too.” Courfeyrac said, and just before the line went dead there was an eruption of several excited voices. 

When he arrived about half an hour later, he learned that the voices belonged to Cosette, Eponine, and Marius. He smiled in greeting. Marius waved back, but Éponine and Cosette shared a knowing smile with one another as Courf pulled him through the door.

“Good night last night?” Eponine asked.

“Exemplary.” Combeferre set the pizza on the counter. 

“This morning was good too,” Courfeyrac winked. Combeferre smiled and rolled his eyes. 

“So, are we calling you boyfriends now?” Cosette asked. 

Combeferre and Courfeyrac shared a glance. 

“Yes,” they said at the same time. 

Their friends all left by dinner time, and they sat cuddled in blankets on the couch as they ate pizza. Combeferre kept his arms wrapped around Courfeyrac just the way he likes and tapped the tune to the songs with his fingertips on Courfeyrac’s arms. 

They went to bed soon after, postponing any sexual proclivities until morning when they weren’t so tired. They laid in bed side by side over the covers, still dressed in street clothes with the lights out and windows wide open. The distant sound of sirens was muddled by the autumn leaves scraping together in the wind. 

Combeferre held their hands in the air above their heads, knotting their fingers together lightly and rubbing each of Courfeyrac’s knuckles, memorizing each dip and crevice. They stared up at the delicate tangle of hands, as if admiring a beautiful foreign object, a distant planet. 

“You know, for a long time I was kind of terrified of you,” Combeferre said.

Courfeyrac grinned confusedly, but didn’t pull his hand away. “Excuse me?”

Combeferre laughed. “More like, I’m never calm around you. You excite me too much, I act illogical. It was unsettling.”

“Awww, I make you nervous,” Courf teased, bringing their hands down so he could kiss Combeferre’s knuckles.

“Not anymore. Not nervous, just happy.” Combeferre said, rolling on his side.

“Mmmm. But I still want to excite you,” Courf hummed. 

Combeferre brought him in close, but could still look him in the eye. Their breaths mingled. “You’re right. With you, I’ll know no peace.” 

“Then what will you know?”

Combeferre thought for a moment. “Remember in astronomy how earth’s tilt means days get longer and shorter, we have seasons, the time of sunrise changes every day? But it’s enduring, it can always be predicted, and it’s there even when it’s cloudy. You’d never know, though, if you didn’t go outside. I’ll know...stepping into the morning.”

Courfeyrac beamed at him, knowingly. “Was it Joly or the astronomy department that taught you that?” he asked. 

“You did.” 

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. This is vaguely set somewhere in America because I didn't want to do research  
> 2\. But I did google the board game Clue which I just learned was originally called Cluedo and is still called that basically everywhere else??? My ignorance is showing  
> 3\. This is carrot cake representation. 
> 
> I don't really write fanfic so I hope you like it!


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